Delayed Rays of a Star

by Amanda Lee Koe

  Schmitz patted him on the shoulder.

  We’re at war, Best Boy, he drawled. Let’s take our chances.

  They were lying on their stomachs over their sleeping bags, the radio between them, volume dialed low. And that, boys, was Bing Crosby’s “Rolleo Rolling Along,” a fresh schoolgirlish voice said in an American accent, so you’d best be rolleo rolling along this afternoon.

  What a doll, Schmitz said. Can’t you hear it, just from her voice?

  He flipped onto his side and undid his fly.

  Up next, boys, Dinah Washington. This is GI Jane on GI Jive.

  There was a split second between Schmitz undoing his fly and Schmitz touching himself. Hans Haas spat on his palm and reached over. If Schmitz was surprised, he did not let it show on his face. There was nothing unnatural about camaraderie between comrades as long as it did not become a peacetime preference, when there was a steady supply of women to be had. It was hygienic to release pressure, nerves. What happens in the desert stays in the desert—and surely they could not be the only ones. Schmitz closed his eyes, but Hans Haas kept his open as he moved his hand faster, Schmitz tilting slightly to give him more room as he struggled to undo his own pants.

  When Schmitz opened his eyes, Hans Haas turned over.

  He felt Schmitz’s warm body cover his. Without first moistening himself, Schmitz forced himself into Hans Haas. It was so painful he tensed up, wanting to cry out, but he was afraid that would make Schmitz stop. Hans Haas could feel the ample fold of Schmitz’s beer belly over his backbone, and his hands on either side of his hips. He braced his body to support Schmitz’s weight better. Over the pain was a sensation that fanned from the end of his tailbone into the rest of his body. They were no longer in Sirte. He sighed just before Schmitz came. The liquid was warm and he clenched his muscles to hold it in. Schmitz pulled out swiftly. When Hans Haas turned around, he saw that blood and a bit of excrement had smeared Schmitz. He wanted to apologize, make a joke, help clean, but Schmitz had turned away from him and was wiping himself on a rag. Schmitz tossed the rag aside and secured his pants.

  The radio was still on, low.

  Fight hard, boys, we are right behind you!

  * * *

  —

  EVERYTHING WAS THE same but of course it was different, and Hans Haas kept the sensation of Schmitz inside of him like a prayer. Whenever invoked, he could make his body respond with a keen shudder as he went through the motions of target practice or terrain training, on a march or over a meal. Each time, he held his breath until the shudder passed, willing it to last longer.

  In the beginning he had been afraid that Schmitz would avoid him.

  The morning after, he was relieved that Schmitz treated him just as before, horsing around at his expense as they marched and ate and bivouacked together. But soon he worried that things were normal because Schmitz did not think anything of what had happened between them. When the water supply went short, they were allowed only upright showers from water packets. Hans Haas had to tiptoe to hold the pack over Schmitz’s head, controlling the flow of water as Schmitz shut his eyes and scrubbed himself under the arms, behind the ears. When all this is over, Schmitz said, know what I’m really looking forward to, Best Boy?

  Gunda?

  Schmitz rapped the top of his head. Hasi, he said, you have got to get your priorities straight. A bath, Best Boy. A real bath back home. The tech crew had a favorite bathhouse they went to for scrub downs and steam saunas at the end of a long shoot. Hans Haas realized he’d already forgotten about the place. He asked Schmitz: Do you think we’ll crew on another movie together?

  Of course we will, Schmitz said. Under the right circumstances.

  What are the right circumstances?

  But Schmitz could not answer that.

  Some nights Hans Haas went hungry, skipping supper so his ass would be clean and empty, just in case. He tried to make excuses to be alone with Schmitz, waiting for Schmitz to approach him, but night after night Schmitz did no such thing. Yet as long as they were in a group, Schmitz had not stopped touching himself in front of Hans Haas. With the radio tuned to the German jazz channel, the four Afrika Korps men beat themselves off wildly in the middle of the desert. Intermittently Hans Haas would look over at Schmitz, but he’d avert his eyes before long, afraid their tentmates would notice. One night, when he could bear it no longer, Hans Haas kept his eyes on Schmitz the whole time and tried to match his rhythm. When Schmitz saw what Hans Haas was doing, he stopped short.

  Early discharge, Schmitz?

  Shut up and get back to your Gerda, I need to take a piss is all.

  Schmitz left the tent. Hans Haas followed.

  As soon as they were out of earshot Schmitz turned around.

  What are you playing at, Best Boy?

  Hans Haas dropped to his knees, trying to undo Schmitz’s pants. Schmitz kicked him away. He got back up and lunged for Schmitz’s leg. Schmitz fell and they struggled in the sand. Schmitz pinned Hans Haas down easily. Quit it, Haas! He would not. He tried to reach for Schmitz’s crotch. Schmitz punched him in the face and stood up. Hans Haas lay in the sand, holding his face in his hands. Schmitz pulled his woolens down and pissed right next to Hans Haas’s face. It was a cloudless moonless night, and the air was so dry it hurt to breathe.

  If it weren’t for you, Hans Haas said, I would be safe at home now.

  Schmitz said nothing, but the steady stream of piss stopped for a second. Then it resumed, taking an arc before it hit the sand.

  What do you think I came here for, Hans Haas said, the war?

  Still Schmitz said nothing. Hans Haas could have screamed. Watching the steam from the heat of Schmitz’s piss evaporate into the cool night air, he turned his cheek and stuck his tongue out toward it. Schmitz stopped pissing at once and kicked him in the ribs.

  God damn it, Haas, Schmitz said. What do you want from me?

  Hans Haas opened his mouth: I—

  But he did not know what he would have said either, for Schmitz kicked him again. Now it was so painful he could hardly bear to exhale, and Schmitz was walking away, breeze smoothing over his footprints as he left them in the sand. Hans Haas wanted to cough up blood into the earth, let it pool into quicksand so he could sink through the desert, cross a subterranean tunnel, and renounce comrade, platoon, army, country. His only plan in life had been to go where this one man went. He’d followed him into the heat of the desert, but either it was too much or it wasn’t enough. Now the mirage was over. Why not swim across the sea toward Athens or Naples, scupper his body to the bottom of the ocean floor with the heaviest weight locked to his chest. Something poked him in the side. He opened his eyes.

  Schmitz was prodding him with the toe of his boot.

  Get up, runt, Schmitz said.

  He could have been a Viking giant or a Norse god, what with the sky and stars behind his strong shoulders, and the messy red hair sticking out from every direction behind his ears. You look like a king, Hans Haas wanted to tell Schmitz, with no intention other than stating what he saw, but he did not want to scare Schmitz off, not when he had come back. What are you waiting for with that birdy look on your face, Schmitz said, a family of scorpions to come bite your pecker off?

  Schmitz reached out a hand.

  Taking it to haul himself into a sitting position, Hans Haas winced from the pain in his ribs. He saw that Schmitz noticed, so to hide it he lied and pointed up ahead: Look, a shooting star. Schmitz turned to look at the sky, where nothing moved. He turned back.

  It’s passed, Hans Haas said, you just missed it.

  What do I care? Schmitz said as he boosted Hans Haas onto his feet. Please don’t tell me you made a wish. Hans Haas could only laugh, the vibrations of his laughter needling the ache in his ribs, glob of pain thrumming so close to his heart it was hard to say which was which, as together they walked ba
ck to the tent and fell asleep, side by side.

  * * *

  —

  IT IS AN early-morning melee.

  On paper it is a thing of beauty, designed by one side to surprise the other before dawn in the desert. Let the historians or the generals declaim from the cozy repose of their armchairs the tactical genius of a combined arms maneuver for on the ground, in blood-hazed sweat and scorched metal, there is no time for glory when there is barely time to breathe. Machine fragments and human parts dot the sandscape.

  Hans Haas is trying to flank Schmitz as they go forward. His ears will not stop ringing. When Schmitz turns around to check if he is still following, he wants to tell Schmitz, Don’t look back, I’m right here, but there is no time to speak. A wrap party in the beer garden, the first time he got sloshed, Schmitz holding his head up as he retched himself dry. Keeping still for a take, watching the damp red hair uncurl on the back of Schmitz’s neck. He can almost see it now at the base of the helmet before him. How he knew what light or filter or stand Schmitz wanted from just a look, a movement of the hands. Caught in that sandstorm, bodies hugging close together. They are charging ahead when from the corner of his eye Hans Haas sees a gun aimed at Schmitz from some twenty feet away. Instead of covering Schmitz, Hans Haas ducks instinctively to protect himself, curling low to the ground as his skin ripples from the shockwave of gunfire. Less than a second later, Schmitz is down in the sand. His body is in one piece but there is too much blood. Hans Haas scrambles toward Schmitz. None of this should have happened—if he could do it again right away, he would be prepared to act differently this time. Schmitz is struggling for breath as he reaches out his hand. Hans Haas grabs it, looking around for someplace safe they can hide. He shuts his eyes, but when he opens them it’s still the same. He begins to panic. He pisses his pants as he cries out for help. No one hears him. Somewhere behind them, a grenade goes off. The ground heaves, his teeth are chattering, everything is louder than he is. Then he feels Schmitz squeezing his hand, calm and firm. That familiar grip brings Hans Haas back and he remembers to breathe. The ground has stopped moving, too. Schmitz is trying to say something. Hans Haas leans close. Cool dry lips part against his cheek, but the words never make it. As the strength in Schmitz’s fingers slackens, Hans Haas bends over to hold as much of him as he can.

  * * *

  —

  AT NOON THE sky is clear blue.

  One side is victorious, the other is not: the way it has always been. A kettle of vultures surveys its luncheon, circling on high. It is the official cease-fire, called for both sides to recover their dead and wounded. The silence is stark but comradely. Both sides must work fast. Behind the right-minded aim of laying each fallen soldier to rest individually is the inevitable utility of an en masse burial. The heat of the desert accelerates decomposition, and the stench will be unbearable if the bodies are not buried by tomorrow.

  One side finds one of their own, alive, on top of one of their own, dead. Both bodies have their eyes open. One of them can’t be much older than twenty. The other must be nearing forty. The younger man blinks, the older man stares straight ahead. They must have lain this way, cheek to cheek, without moving for some time: a thin layer of shifted sand covers them both, undulating patterns on their uniforms. The younger man refuses to budge. They check him for injuries, but when they try to pull him up, he digs his nails into his comrade’s shoulders. They do not have time for this. Together they pry him off the dead body.

  Let me stay, the younger man says. I want to stay right here.

  Clearly, he is in shock. His lips are parched, but he appears unharmed. They sit him down and offer him some water. He does not drink. Someone is bending over to help close the older man’s eyes. Don’t, the younger man says. They go on with what they are doing. I said, Don’t touch him! The younger man is lunging for them, upsetting the precious canteen of drinking water. Someone has to hold him down. It is not so easy to shut the eyes now that the body has been dead for some time. Please, the younger man begs as they restrain him. A more experienced combatant reaches over to massage the tissue around the eye sockets, still supple, to release those muscles caught in motion. Now the lids of the older man are slid down smoothly. They let go of the younger man. He turns away from the older man’s face. Behind the now-closed lids are eyes he won’t be seeing again.

  The body is carted away, to join the others laid out in the sand.

  From afar it is quite hard to tell all the bodies apart, but when the younger man turns back to look, there is no mistaking him for anyone else: red hair, broad shoulders. A big gust of wind blows. He worries that grains of sand will enter his friend’s ears.

  Behind the lines, each side begins to dig a shallow mass grave.

  XI

  The new wolf was obtained personally by Leni, after substantial flattery and bribery, from a Spanish baron and collaborator who had a penchant for wild animals that festooned the menagerie on the rolling grounds of his estate. This wolf had its canines and claws removed as a pup, was trained to beg for scraps at the table, and even to offer up its paw. Her producer was deeply relieved that this was much safer for everyone, but Leni was unhappy that the wolf was eager to please, with no savage streak. After play-fighting with Pedro, it padded up to her for a treat.

  There were not so many scenes left, and she was running out of money.

  The Tiefland shoot would have to come to an end soon. Leni did not want to go back down, where everything had grown so very confusing. Teething problems, she told herself. Things had to get worse before they could get better. But how bad is worse? She could admit to no one that she was afraid. Others who had voiced doubts had fallen firmly out of favor with the Party. A few had even been tried for sedition against the state. Sometimes, when it all got too much and she was worrying herself sick about what to do next once they wrapped this production, Leni would catch herself thinking yet again: If only that dratted Josef von Sternberg had chosen me for The Blue Angel. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess. I would be living it up in Hollywood, where people would be waiting to kiss my hands. But if it weren’t for this country and this time, she countered uncertainly, would you have made such beautiful movies? Of course I would have, she retorted just to end this sour thought on a high note, I can make magic wherever I go, it lives in me. Where and what are secondary. Who and how are key.

  Watching Marlene’s star rise steadily in America then, with Jo penning role after role for that woman, less movies with a plot than chamber pieces to show off his muse, Leni told herself that Marlene may have made it, but it was all Jo’s doing. Well, there was no honor in that.

  Leni had promised herself that when she moved to Hollywood, it would be different.

  She’d tried to make plans to visit with a project as early as she could, but full Party approval came only in the fall of 1938, by which time Marlene had had an eight-year head start. The Ministry of Propaganda brokered Leni’s maiden visit to America: Olympia was doing well on the international festival circuit; they wanted to capitalize on that momentum to sell American rights to distributors. Leni’s personal ambitions coincided with the Party’s interests in building up an international profile for Germany, and her junket was fully underwritten by public funds. New York had been a most delightful start. On deck, Leni was busy admiring how the parting fog made Manhattan’s silhouette even more imposing, when her chaperone tried to redirect her attention. What is it? she asked shortly, jolted out of the mental note she was making on how this natural effect could be re-created artificially in a movie. People who couldn’t understand an artist’s need for space would interrupt you about any dumb thing, it was ridiculous! What did she care that a swarm of small boats had sailed up to meet the ship’s entry into port? The people in them were flailing their arms for attention. They had notepads in hand. When she listened closely, she realized they were calling out the same name.

  Over here, Miss Riefen
stahl!

  They were American reporters, and they were here for her. Leni noticed that some were cradling doves. What’s with the birds, she asked her chaperone. Passenger pigeons, he explained, if you give a scoop, they’re sent back to the printing press to beat the other papers.

  When a woman had substance, she did not need to ride on the coattails of an older male director who would open doors hitherto closed to her. A woman of substance did not even need to pay minders to arrange a press conference in the ritziest hotel in a foreign city she was visiting for the first time. The press would row out to meet her with their fastest pigeons. Cap that, Marlene!

  Miss Riefenstahl, are you Hitler’s girlfriend?

  Leni turned in that direction.

  No, she called out, but then she couldn’t resist peppering her denial with a touch of coquetry. You mustn’t believe everything you hear!

  * * *

  —

  BREAKFASTING AT THE Pierre the next day after a restful slumber, Leni brought all the newspapers she could gather to her table, eager to see what they had to say about her, which picture they had printed.

  Pretty as a swastika, one paper wrote.

  Her favorite picture was the one in which she’d posed like the Statue of Liberty.

  Leni sailed down Fifth Avenue, pulling down her sunglasses expectantly, hallo America! When she intimated to the Ziegfeld girls at City Hall that she, too, was a dancer, they all wanted her autograph. The manager at City Hall, the biggest theater in America, was keen on buying screening rights for Olympia. They would meet up in Hollywood with his lawyer to sign the contract. Leni was thrilled by the scale and speed at which things happened here. Someone took her entourage to a black revue, and she commented gaily that the rhythm was fantastic but it was all jungle ability! Everyone in her company laughed. At MoMA, viewing new work from French postimpressionists ahead of their special screening of Triumph of the Will as part of the museum’s art film program, she was asked her opinion of Cézanne. The imprecision of form in his new body of work bothered Leni, the waffly clouds and the cobblestones lifting off of themselves, but she knew the high regard in which Cézanne was held in these circles and so made a generic statement of approval.