Delayed Rays of a Star

by Amanda Lee Koe

  She oversaw elaborate architectural designs for Moorish arches and wrought-iron filigree that would match her vision for the set. She okayed the design on paper, but after the sets had been constructed and brought to the mountains, she complained that they weren’t rustic enough. She wanted everything rebuilt from scratch. It was done. Much better, she said of the new ones, though they were hardly distinguishable from the old.

  Then there had been the problem of the extras.

  As much as possible, Leni never liked to stint on her environments. The real thing was always best. This certainly applied to extras and animals. That was why she had taken so much trouble with the wolf. Surrounding yourself with the right objects and textures amounted to a rich patina on the screen. Tiefland opened with Martha—herself as a Moorish beggar dancer, full of far-flung color, exotic mystery, spirited flamboyance—riding a horse into town, gazed upon admiringly by the street urchins of Roccabruna, and she wanted those extras to have the right look. Production assistants suggested recruiting the children of mountain farmers from the nearby Sarntal Valley to play the street urchins. She took some test pictures of them. The children of the mountain farmers were corn-fed, blond, and blue-eyed.

  It will show on the screen, she said.

  We’re shooting a black-and-white, Miss Riefenstahl, a production assistant said. Would the difference be noticeable?

  If we were back in Berlin, Leni said, you would be fired.

  * * *

  —

  LENI WROTE THE Doctor, asking if it would be possible to travel to Andalusia to recruit some dark-haired extras. She would need adults, too, as villagers in later scenes. He wrote back that it was not merely too expensive, but also dangerous, given the combat situation.

  Leni turned back dispiritedly to the pictures of the Sarntal Valley inhabitants. The makeup artist suggested dyeing their hair and rubbing soot on their faces. After one potato schnapps too many, the line producer joked: It was too bad they couldn’t use some Jewish extras. They could well pass as Moorish. And casting would be so convenient, too; they need only visit one of the Party’s collection camps! Leni disregarded his prattle, but the next morning she went up to him and squeezed his arm. You’ve given me the perfect idea, she said. Of course we can’t use Jews, but who else is there? Gypsies!

  With alacrity and exuberance she wrote the Doctor.

  He was not opposed to the idea, agreeing that, for her intents and purposes, gypsies were an ideal stand-in for Moors. She was hereby authorized to visit one of the Party’s holding camps for nonsedentary persons of Roma and Sinti descent, and to pick as many extras as she needed. If she was still in Krün, the camp nearest to her was Maxglan. Arrangements were made for her to be received by camp officials. She should send the Doctor a name list of those she found suitable. He would get someone to file official paperwork to facilitate the procurement.

  Camp Maxglan had been only a short drive away.

  There were two hundred and seventy Roma and Sinti inmates being held there. Presented in neat rows in a cramped courtyard, they wore threadbare clothing and had dirty faces. I can’t take these people like this, Leni said when she arrived. Can they reclothe themselves and come back out again? There was an odd silence before the camp commander cleared his throat and told her this was as good as it got.

  Fine, Leni said, trying to regain her composure. I’ll take it from here. Marching up and down the lines and peering at their faces, Leni held up her index fingers and thumbs against each other to simulate the aspect ratio of her Arriflex. It was distracting to have to look at them as a bedraggled flock of humans, and that smell! Isolating them face by face, body by body, as rectilinear objects to be placed in focus, Leni sifted out forty to have a second look at. There were a few who were too thin, so she whittled it down to thirty. From there she picked twenty-three. An NSDAP official was on hand to take down her selection. The oldest was a seventy-five-year-old widower, and the youngest was three months old, born at the camp. As she left the dismal place, Leni noticed that it was surrounded by barbed wire. She shrugged to herself. Times were so volatile now, they were safer in there.

  Information was sent to headquarters to be processed and cleared. I hope you will be able to expedite this matter, she cabled the Doctor. Tiefland is waiting for me.

  Back at headquarters, the twenty-three handpicked Roma and Sinti extras were certified by the NSDAP to be, the administrative notation read, NOT FROM JEWISH TRIBES. A contract was drawn up to stipulate terms clearly. There was to be strict isolation of the extras from all other personnel. The set was to follow the same regulations as did the camp. This included latrine use and ration portions. Security measures were not to be overridden for artistic matters. Armed guards borrowed from the Wehrmacht would be sent to accompany the loan. Should the need arise, they were not to be obstructed in performing their duties. Leni Riefenstahl GmbH would arrange for and bear the costs of housing, feeding, and transporting the extras. Extras were to be recompensed for their labor at a wage of seven reichsmarks per day for adults. Three children were to be counted as one adult. Further, the contract stated, in italics, these wages were not to be paid to the Roma and Sinti inmates directly. They should be made out to the Salzburg branch of the NSDAP’s Gypsy General Fund, to defray the overhead of running camps like Maxglan.

  Leni received two copies of the contract in Krün.

  She browsed through them quickly, signed the papers, and couriered them back posthaste, impatient to begin.

  * * *

  —

  THE GYPSIES WERE natural performers and provided the homespun verisimilitude Leni wanted for the villagers of Roccabruna. When the scene had to be reset, they resumed their original positions quickly and quietly, as if they had already been trained to gather and disperse. Leni was glad that she had held out for this dark-eyed Roma and Sinti bunch—they were so well behaved, the Wehrmacht Afrika Korps guards were hardly necessary.

  Sometimes Leni would join the hair and makeup supervisor on continuity checks, trimming fringes and beards and hair lengths so they would look the same as they had across the long shoot. One evening, the line producer came to ask her if the gypsies were allowed to sing before their bedtime.

  Of course, Leni said. Why would we forbid that?

  It was not permitted them in Camp Maxglan, the line producer said. If we want to follow protocol, we probably shouldn’t—

  This is my set, Leni said. I permit them to sing here.

  Leni was friendly with the extras, but she found them to be nervous around her. Only little Zazilia greeted her every time she saw her, hoping for more toffee. Everyone else was careful to give her a wide berth whenever she passed. Fame has that kind of effect, Leni guessed. Even if you didn’t parade it around, people noticed. You could only try to reassure them that you were just like them, too.

  One of Leni’s scenes as Martha had her galloping in on the dappled gray at high speed, and it was quite dangerous. To be safe, she picked out five female extras who could be passed off as her from the back or at a distance. None of them had equestrian experience, so Leni simply picked the one who resembled her the most. The girl had dark hair and must have been in her twenties. She was almost the exact same height as Leni, though a good deal thinner. To beef her up, they gave her a few more clothing layers to wear underneath. Her hair was trimmed and curled to match Leni’s, and she got to wear Martha’s dancer costume. The body double was frightened before they started shooting. Leni offered to share her antianxiety barbiturate with her. The girl shook her head. Gott im Himmel, these people were so antsy about modern medicine!

  It’ll all go well, Leni cajoled. What’s more, you’ll be paid more as a body double than an extra.

  Our wages, her body double said hesitantly, they go—to the camp.

  Look now, Leni said, trying not to lose her patience. I didn’t dictate the terms of your work here, but
I’ll owe you a favor, how about that? Take this pill like I said—you’ll feel much better. With a most mistrustful look on her face, the girl took the pill from Leni. My dear, Leni said, I’m not having one myself only because I already did so at breakfast. What do you think it is, poison?

  X

  Hans Haas kept his voice gentle when he corralled the Roma and Sinti extras together in the mornings. He felt bad that they would stop talking whenever any of the film crew was within earshot, even though no one on set understood Romani. The extras could speak German fluently, too, but they did not use it among themselves, and in general they did not speak with the guards or crew unless necessary.

  Most of them tried to avoid eye contact with Hans Haas, but the girl who’d played Miss Riefenstahl’s body double had grown bolder than the rest after being singled out for that scene. Hans Haas had been the one leading the dappled gray back to its mark as they went for multiple takes. Waiting beyond the frame, she’d asked him quite casually in German: And if the horse throws me? Not knowing how else to answer, he reassured her: I’m sure you’ll be fine. She gave him a haughty smirk that made her look very pretty, especially in Miss Riefenstahl’s gypsy costume, as she mounted the horse and looked straight ahead, waiting for their cue. The horse reared in one of the takes, but the girl kept her wits about her and they managed to continue shooting the scene at various speeds, till Miss Riefenstahl was satisfied. Wonderful job, Hans Haas heard her say to the body double, you’re such a natural!

  In the mornings, when Hans Haas came for roll call and to take them to the holding pen for breakfast, she held his gaze steadily, nodding at him as he passed them by.

  She was the one who’d asked the line producer if they might be allowed to sing.

  When permission came back in the positive, Hans Haas supplied them a little handbell he’d found in the supply shed, which made them so happy. The body double thanked Hans Haas, and he saw her eyes soften for a moment. That’s no problem at all, he said, staying a while to listen. Without instruments, the extras layered their chesty vocals one over the other. Hans Haas could feel their song in his gut, although he did not understand the words.

  Another time, the body double asked Hans Haas: How long more will the shoot last for?

  I’m not sure, Hans Haas said, I am on a temporary contract myself.

  Could you ask someone who might know? the body double said. Hans Haas agreed to help find out. Without saying it is I who wishes to know, she added. Once the words left her lips she looked like she regretted them, as if she had disclosed a weakness best kept private. Hans Haas did not see what she was worried about and tried to reassure her, but she shook her head. At lunch the next day he asked the line producer. The line producer did not answer, but he held up crossed fingers. No one can be sure, Hans Haas reported to the body double, but it is hoped that the shoot will go on till the war ends. So that everybody can remain here.

  The body double nodded, thinking it over.

  Then she looked at him and said: Who is “everybody”?

  Hans Haas was taken aback.

  She lowered her voice to say: We’ve done no wrong, sir.

  He was silent.

  She tried: You’re a good man. He was getting uncomfortable now. She looked at him even more closely. You’re not like the others, she said. Have you lost someone?

  Miss, I will have to ask you to go back into the pen, he said. As you know, it is against the rules for us to be communicating at length. I could get into trouble. She looked at him. We could both get into trouble, he added. Still she would not stop staring, so he prodded her lightly with the butt of his rifle to face away from him and turn around. He ushered her back in, locked the gate, and was careful to avoid her after that.

  * * *

  —

  THE LIBYAN SAND had been as fine as talcum powder, and it got into everything: their eyes, their ears, their boots, their underpants, their food, their truck engines. In the mornings, it leaned toward dun, and in the evenings, ash, but at noon, when the sun scorched its limestone base, it blazed white. Neckerchiefs had been in vogue among the 15th Panzer and 5th Light divisions of the Afrika Korps ever since their high commander, sporting one in striking turquoise, officiated a parade. This page had purportedly been taken out of the French cavalry’s book. It was spiffy, it absorbed one’s perspiration, it protected the back of the neck from sunburn.

  Much to Hans Haas’s amusement, even Schmitz had taken to wearing a colorful neckerchief he tied like a cravat. Not everyone in Sirte had the good fortune of being availed of a piece of fabric that suited the requirements of the look, but in a pinch a triangular segment cut from an undershirt would do the trick. Schmitz’s improvised cravat, in a pleasant shade of violet with a hand-rolled white border, had been Gunda’s fichu. She’d handed it to him as a keepsake and talisman, accompanied by that singular exhortation issued from the lips of any number of women—mothers, wives, sisters, whores alike—in different tongues, across continents: Come back in one piece!

  * * *

  —

  HANS HAAS AND Schmitz were caught in a sandstorm crossing the two hundred meters from their dugout to the mess tent for one midday meal. They heard the wind even before they saw the lightning or felt the sand. Schmitz tossed his neckerchief to Hans Haas.

  Hold it over your nose and mouth, Best Boy.

  And you?

  Schmitz yanked his field cap over his nose and mouth and pulled Hans Haas down with him as the wave of sand sliced through. Hans Haas breathed the sweet-sour odor of Schmitz’s sweat through the fichu. When the storm passed, Schmitz laughed at Hans Haas hopping on one leg to knock sand out of his ears, teasing him for looking like a sawdust doll. They had not brought out a map or a sun compass, since the distance they were covering was so short, but they were adrift for nearly two hours. By the time they got to the mess tent food service was over, and they were late to report for afternoon terrain training. There were limited blanks to be fired for target practice, but even when there were no field exercises, they were told to get a feel of the desert. When the time comes, the commander said, you don’t want unfamiliarity to hamper survival.

  The desert heat, the sand, and the ever-changing direction of the desiccating winds all made for maximum discomfort. Hans Haas could not stop scratching his skin. Quit it, Schmitz said gruffly each time, and Hans Haas would stop, but soon after without noticing he would start over. Schmitz cuffed him. What are you, Schmitz said, a mongrel with fleas? Hans Haas saw that he’d scratched through the skin on the side of his elbow. Schmitz leaned over to disperse the sandflies that were beginning to alight on the raw flesh beneath.

  At night in their desert tents, they listened to the radio, played poker on hand-drawn cards, shared pictures they’d brought of wives, girlfriends, movie actresses. One of the other two corporals masturbated unfailingly to a picture of his wife. When he came, he made it a point to whisper: Ger-da.

  What a devoted little rooster, Schmitz would say, but the corporal did not mind.

  Most of the pocket actress picture cards Schmitz tossed off to were autographed, and their tentmates often borrowed them for this reason—those lily hands, they’ve touched these very corners! Schmitz stowed his collection in the flap of his satchel, and anyone was welcome to share. When Hans Haas was looking through them, he found a passport-sized photograph of Schmitz. As far as Hans Haas had seen, men regarded the camera sternly for their portrait, but Schmitz had turned up his collar and was giving an open-mouthed smile, like he’d been caught by surprise. Hoping Schmitz wouldn’t notice, Hans Haas slipped that passport-sized photograph into his own satchel. One evening as they were returning to the tent, Schmitz asked Hans Haas: Are you a believer, Haas?

  Hans Haas shook his head.

  Why not, Schmitz said, it is easy to believe.

  I am not a believer, Hans Haas said, slowly, because I would like to believe tha
t we get to decide.

  They both grew silent, then Schmitz asked: Haven’t you at least been baptized, as a child?

  Hans Haas shook his head again.

  So if one of us died, Schmitz said, it is unlikely we would ever meet again.

  Hans Haas nodded.

  In that case, Schmitz said, how about staying alive?

  Hans Haas did not want this conversation to end, and so repeated idiotically: How about it?

  I swear you annoy the hell out of me, Schmitz said as he reached over and caught Hans Haas’s neck in his elbow, squeezing it so tight he gasped out loud. What would I do without a dunce like you to look out for, eh Hasi?

  * * *

  —

  LYING IN THEIR four-men tent, Hans Haas and Schmitz were listening to a Reichstag cover of Cole Porter’s “You’re the Top.” Ordinary jazz was forbidden to Germans as degenerate for its free-flowing improvisatory nature, but Herr Doktor Minister had assembled a private live band in a state-of-the-art studio in the Ministry of Propaganda, from which the only licensed jazz channel on the Rome-Berlin-Tokyo Axis radio operated, where German riffs on American café standards were broadcast as far as South America:

  You’re the Top

  You’re a German flyer

  You’re the Top

  You’re machine gun fire

  The two other corporals they shared the tent with were out on sentry duty. When the song ended, Schmitz began to fiddle with the radio. The signals sputtered, and then a song came on. As the signal grew clearer, Hans Haas realized it was an American jazz song, a real one. Listening to enemy shortwave—not even dispatches, just music—could have you tried for treason, the penalty for that being summary execution. Hans Haas was nervous.