Leni bit her lip and asked: May I know who got it?
When she heard “Marlene Dietrich,” her throat constricted as she pronounced into the phone: How wonderful, please send my regards! Slamming the receiver down, she dashed a half-empty teacup onto the floor, and then the saucer, too. Cleaning up her mess later she’d cut her foot on a shard of broken porcelain. Even now, when Leni caught sight of that faint scar, she felt a pinch. How had that boorish nobody ousted her good self, an actress on the rise with a respectable catalog of movie credits to show for? Marlene must have been willing to fall into bed with Jo right away. Best regards to the two cheaters. They were both married—not to each other—and they were eloping to America to make movies together! But no matter, Leni thought sagely then, a fat cow like Marlene with a suburban barmaid’s sensibility would never go far in Hollywood. That sophisticated scene was sure to wait it out for someone like Leni. She hated how wrong she had been about this. Every time she saw Marlene in a new Hollywood movie, or even heard her name, it left Leni cold and rattled.
How well the Doctor knew her, to have arranged this welcoming touch. Now he was dismissing his secretary. Let’s stop there, he said. We’ll continue after my meeting with Miss Riefenstahl. It would be impolite to keep our golden girl waiting. Before Leni could collect herself and ignore the life-sized projection of her archenemy batting false lashes, the Doctor played his hand. Leni, he said, turning to her solicitously. Where did you come from?
He poured them each a drink from a decanter.
Nowhere, she said, determined to remain calm. Home, if you will.
Ah, he said. That wasn’t apparent to me. Your dressing—I was concerned, I thought—Dear me, has she just come from a funeral? Leni did not respond. Happy to hear that isn’t the case, of course, the Doctor said, passing her the drink. Cheers?
No thank you, she said.
No?
I don’t drink, she said truthfully. Alcohol makes me tired and dizzy.
That explains everything, the Doctor said as he took a sniff of the drink he’d poured her. If you don’t ever get off, it’s no small wonder how high-strung you are! He clinked glasses with himself and drained them one after the other. When he was done, he smacked his lips and nodded toward the screen. Our very own Marlene’s latest romp, he said. Destry Rides Again. Taking L.A. by storm, isn’t she? Here we are in the middle of a war, and this is what she sees fit to play in: a Hollywood cowboy movie. The Doctor leaned forward. And what do you suppose her character is called in the film?
Leni shook her head.
Frenchy, the Doctor pursed his lips, she is called Frenchy. Of course she knows how hurtful this is to us, when we are at war with those frogs. He slid a finger over the rim of his empty glass, producing an awful squeak. Leni, he continued, we are so lucky to have you. You are the only one of the stars to understand us. Zarah Leander and Marika Rökk are lookers, but they are imports. Mercenary women. Lida was Czech but—personally speaking—I’m able to report she’s certified German at heart. She turned down Hollywood offers to be with us, it’s too bad we had to send her away. But you, Leni. You’re the paragon of a good German woman, aren’t you?
Leni sat tight on the sofa, wishing she’d accepted the drink just so she would have had something to hold in her hands. She gave an indefinite nod, as the Doctor went on: Marlene sent back her passport. We have a bounty on her person now. Just a little lower than Einstein’s. They should be taken alive of course, so we can use them. He chuckled—a wet and clammy sound. She did not know if his bounty list was a metaphor. Remind me again, he added. Did you see Marlene when you were in America?
No, she said warily. I did not meet with Marlene.
Pity.
We never got along.
No?
Well, I should think that Marlene has always seen me as competition.
Oh I see, he said, appearing to think it over. Why would she? Anyway, he went on smoothly like he hadn’t just insulted her, what about Clark Gable?
What about him?
Didn’t you ever get to meet Clark Gable in Hollywood?
Leni did not know why the Doctor was playing these games with her, asking questions he knew the answers to. It was not the right time, she said. I should hardly have to remind you why.
The Doctor smiled, reclining into the couch.
But surely you are not challenging the Party’s judgment? That would not be right, and our leader would be so surprised to hear that. We ask. He gives brilliant replies. I love him. No question. We have a vested interest in your success, of course. Your international approbation has an effect on our nation’s standing. But we need scalable returns. There are any number of artists and writers my Ministry has dropped like hot potatoes. Have you heard about Max Ehrlich?
No, she said evenly, I have not.
Put it this way, the Doctor said, you won’t be hearing from him anymore.
A strained silence passed between them. The Doctor put his hand on her knee. His fingers were cold and limp. Somehow, it was obvious to Leni in the quality of his touch that he had placed his hand there to frighten, not to make a move. A horrid consolation: Hurrah, this man is not in fact harassing me physically, he is only trying to intimidate me psychologically. Breaking it down this way, it was easier to react practically, and not emotionally. She made like she was scratching an itch behind her calf so as to move her knee from his hand. It worked. Where were we? The Doctor removed his hand and tapped his temple. Ah, yes. Clark Gable. What I meant to tell you earlier was that he is on our bounty list, too.
What does Clark Gable have to do with anything?
Hasn’t our leader told you before? Clark Gable is his favorite actor.
But Clark Gable is American.
He hasn’t told you, then, the Doctor said, excited. He told me Clark Gable looks like a real man. And I agree. Don’t you? The man has an unassailable feeling about him. If we ever get a hold of Clark Gable, we’ll send him to you.
Whatever for?
Have you seen Gone with the Wind?
This surely was a trick question. Leni was relieved she had spotted the snare. Of course not, she said. Where would I go to see it if the Ministry has banned it?
Leni, Leni, the Doctor patted her knee, at the exact same spot he had touched her before. You would come to the Ministry to see it, of course. He smiled at her. On the screen, Frenchy was dancing on the bartop, gun in her holster. We consider Gone with the Wind superb, the Doctor went on. Something rousing to keep the people’s imaginations occupied, so they don’t get swept away by every street-corner rumor. He thinks Gable would be wonderful in a Volkisch-style Gone with the Wind. You could direct it, after you are done with this mountain movie of yours. Admittedly, we are all waiting for you to make another Triumph of the Will, but that isn’t what you want, is it? You want to try something new! Our agents in America say Frank Capra has been commissioned to attempt a rebuttal to your masterpiece, and it might please you to know what he said: “Riefenstahl’s prowess—it’s intimidating.” God only knows why you want to waste your talent on Bergfilms. What is it with you and mountains, anyway, my girl?
He moved to the desk to retrieve some papers.
A contract for seven million reichsmarks, awaiting her signature on the dotted line. Even on the higher end, he harped on as she initialed the bottom of every page, a feature film in Berlin costs half a million reichsmarks at most, but as he understood it, she had been given special permission. With a budget like that, who can we expect to be starring in it? Was she going to bring in a marquee name from abroad like Clara Bow or Garbo, or could she be lining her own pockets with all that gold? He would be taking a personal interest in those expense sheets, keep them neat! Given that her budget was fourteen times the cost of an average movie, they had correspondingly high expectations of Tiefland. In wartime a movie can be only one of two things: a call
to arms, or a bedtime story. Was hers going to be a snooze? The sooner she finished it the better. When the war was over and they were victorious, she would surely be asked to film the victory parade, with an even more enormous budget! Could she sink all the state coffers with just one movie? Then everyone could eat cake, and she would be free to play with all the big-ticket toys she liked: cranes, tracks, miniatures, the newest range of Arriflex precision lenses!
Wouldn’t that be something to look forward to, Missy Director?
The Doctor’s voice had grown higher and higher, thinner and thinner, as he mocked her. Not wanting him to know how much he got to her, she managed to keep her face calm, though her breathing had quickened and she felt her chest heave. The Doctor had noticed, too. He let his eyes wander over her before fixing his gaze on her breasts moving up and down. He did not take his eyes off her chest until she opened her mouth to speak. Yes, Leni said, forcing a smile even as she felt her lip quiver, I look forward to all of that. Splendid, the Doctor said, returning her smile with an equally cold one. I would expect nothing less of you.
Leni stood to leave. The Doctor bowed.
It was wonderful of you to stop by, he said, but will you let my secretary back in on your way out? We have got to get on with real work. You’ll drop me a line any time you need anything, won’t you?
From the screen, Frenchy blew a kiss to a man with a pint of beer.
* * *
—
SEVEN MILLION REICHSMARKS sounded colossal, but money disappeared so quickly on set. When Leni emerged from her trailer to inform the crew that they would be reshooting yesterday’s scene, the assistant director said in front of everyone: We’re all ready for the scene with the wolf right now, Miss Riefenstahl. Resetting will cut us back at least an hour and cloud cover is forecasted later this afternoon. Are you sure you don’t want to start with the wolf scene?
I’m sure, Leni said gently but firmly, and I want us to all be on the same page. Let’s get Martha’s scene right first. It won’t do to get ahead of ourselves, what do you think?
We’ll focus on Martha then, the assistant director said to her deferentially, I’ll get them to put the wolf back in the pen. We’ll be reshooting “Martha Enters the Village,” he called out to the crew. Reset, reset! Prep the extras! Put the wolf back in the pen and warm him down!
After everyone had dispersed, the production manager circled back to her.
Miss Riefenstahl, he said. I shouldn’t like to be the one to say this, but the budget isn’t holding up so well. It’s the constant reshoots and the sick days. This was just what Leni did not want to hear right now. Was he a fool? If they finished shooting the movie, everyone would have to go back down the mountains. Or was he trying to hint to her that for the shoot to go on, she would soon have to reach out a hand for more money? The unsavory prospect of cabling the Doctor and risking a visit from him was substantial incentive to be more prudent, but for now she would chance that. Turning to him with a weak smile, Leni rounded her shoulders as she said in a small voice: Klaus, are you really going to berate me about my bladder colic?
He was flustered.
Miss Riefenstahl, that was not what I meant.
I try so hard, Klaus, she said. You know the day before, when I’d strapped the hot water bottle to my abdomen, I wanted to go on, but it was so painful—
Certainly, you must get your rest, he said. I’ll make sure everyone is ready and I’ll manage the budget. It’ll work out. Thank you, Klaus, she said. I couldn’t do it without you. Ah, don’t say that, Miss Riefenstahl, the production manager said. We’re all here to support your vision. It might be my vision, Leni said with as much warmth as she could muster at short notice, but this is our movie. I don’t want any of you to forget that for a second.
Making her way to the lighting crew, Leni located the gaffer.
He was rigging a setup with the new best boy they’d borrowed from the Afrika Korps. The best boy was young. His face and arms were very tanned, but he had an unnerved look about him. She wondered if he knew firsthand that the victory promised them was falling out of reach. But continuing with this line of thinking was sure to trigger a panic attack. This was war, she told herself, and things could change with one brilliant pincer attack. Leave that to H, focus on what is at hand.
Listen, she said to the gaffer and the best boy. For a filmmaker like me, lights convey just as much as performers in a scene. The lighting did not emote enough in yesterday’s scenes—it was only arbitrary. Is there something you can do about that?
As we are shooting outdoors, Miss Riefenstahl, the gaffer said, there’s not so much control, but I’ll try to think of something.
I’m sure you will, Leni said. She turned to the new best boy and stuck out a hand. He looked surprised to be addressed directly, as he gave his name: Hans Haas at your service. There were already four or five other Hanses on set. She barely registered his name, but it was good to make everyone feel valued, even if only for a minute.
I hear you were at UFA, she said. That’s quite impressive.
I have a long way to go, he said, and I appreciate this learning opportunity on Miss Riefenstahl’s set.
Good, she said distractedly, as she spotted her co-actor in the distance, stretching the trunk of his body. He’d rolled up his sleeves, probably to show off his muscles. This was not a beauty pageant; she would have to go over and put him in his place. Very good, she finished up here, I’ll expect you to assist Dieter as best you can. Let’s give this our best shot. Remember, I am not going for Wandervogel naturalism. More mythical, less naturalistic. Together we must strive for an elevation of the senses!
V
A tough lady to please, the cinematographer said to the gaffer and Hans Haas grudgingly after Miss Riefenstahl was out of earshot, but you have to give it to her, she really knows what she’s talking about. Sure that’s how she got to where she is, the gaffer said. Knowing her stuff. Can’t hurt to know your stuff, the cinematographer agreed, on top of spreading those legs wide as a tripod stand.
Have you seen her legs, though?
Muscly as hell. Big calves, you can’t miss them.
I like them frail; she’s too sporty.
Do you reckon it’s true the Doctor has only one testicle, same snag as Napoleon?
Come on, Dieter, we’ve been through this before, she can’t be hopping from the wolf’s lair to the rat’s nest, you don’t think that would be a problem?
And what did I say the last time, Jorg? Obviously they’re in it together, holy trinity. Hitler on her front porch, Goebbels through the back door.
Well, we’d best get going before she comes over to show us one or two of the things she knows.
I have no problems with that, Jorg, why do you think I keep a light on in my cabin at night? For the moths?
Hans Haas knew how the tech crew liked to get jazzy with off-color lingo, ad-libbed on macho set after macho set in Berlin, but Miss Riefenstahl had been so nice, he was surprised they talked like that behind her back. Lead actresses got it all the time. There was so much waiting around on a big set, and dead time needed to be filled. Yet as far as Hans Haas knew, there had never been a lead actress who was also commanding the tech crew as a director, like Miss Riefenstahl. One moment she was having her makeup touched up, and the next moment she was briefing the cinematographer on the blocking. A woman did some things differently, it was true. She’d taken the time to ask for his name and shake his hand. None of the male directors he’d worked with ever did anything like that. Often, for crew in junior positions, no one noticed you or asked your name unless you made a mistake and they were about to give you a dressing down, dock your pay, or fire you.
The cinematographer was commandeering him around as they set up for the scene: Miss Riefenstahl would be riding in on horseback. She wanted more light on her than they had arranged yesterday. They agreed on he
avy-duty fog from the smoke machine, which would allow the light to catch onto its particles for a dewy quality. What would Schmitz have done? Light to the story the director wants to tell, Schmitz liked to say. Don’t tell the cinematographer, Hasi, but shots do not compose a frame. Lights do.
Hans Haas proposed a setup Schmitz had taught him: a carbon arc spotlight that would follow Miss Riefenstahl, setting up many layers of diffusion between her and the source. On camera it would look like she was glowing. They tested it out, and even the cinematographer agreed it looked better than before. I was trained by the best, Hans Haas would have said, but he did not want to step on the toes of the gaffer.
Contingent on Miss Riefenstahl’s bladder colic, they might or might not be shooting one more scene after lunch. If her colic flared up, they would be done for the day. He would dismantle the lights when they cooled, transport them back down the mountain, do a head count of the extras, and secure their dormitory. Then there were the animals to feed: oats for the dappled-gray horse, scraps for the wolf. After that, he would enjoy a hot meal himself, and then hope for a deep and dreamless sleep. In Sirte, even when there had been proper food and they were not eating rations under tarp, no matter how many miles they had marched or how tired he was, Hans Haas could not sleep through more than three quarters of an hour.
Best Boy, Schmitz would turn to him and say, sure you don’t want to share the Pervitin?
Rumor that Hans Haas was strung up on amphetamines caught on. Before the first campaign, his tentmates requested a share of his stash. Uppers were a boon. Soldiers who could get their hands on some popped them before battle so they could stay alert and fight harder for their lives. I don’t have any, he told them, as Schmitz mouthed to them: Best Boy doesn’t want to share! Hans Haas’s eyes rolled back in their sockets from fatigue, but his eyelids jumped open at the slightest noise, even the soft-pedal hum of his own thoughts. Why were they crawling about in the desert, risking their lives for the words of men who sat in overstuffed armchairs in the chancellery back in Berlin? But he did not dare to ask Schmitz any of this, so he watched Schmitz’s sleeping face till he dozed off, too.
Delayed Rays of a Star Page 13