Delayed Rays of a Star

by Amanda Lee Koe

  At the least she did think he was a more acceptable painter than his German contemporaries. She saw in the work of Kirchner, Grosz, the whole faction that tried to dignify themselves with an innocuous name like “New Objectivity” something altogether unsanitary. That evening after her MoMA visit, before the news broke, a confidential memo came to her from a New York–based Gestapo agent: Miss Riefenstahl, you are advised not to speak on the incident, and to return to Berlin immediately.

  What incident?

  Soon you will hear.

  When the news poured in, what she read was shocking, but Leni did not elect to return to Berlin. Right away, she invited journalists to speak with her in her suite at The Pierre. The editorials in American papers covering “The Night of Broken Glass,” stating that hundreds of Jews had been murdered and thousands arrested in a single evening, describing the destruction of two hundred and sixty seven synagogues, property damage amounting to hundreds of millions of reichsmarks, the community fine of one billion reichsmarks to be collected by compulsory confiscation of 20 percent of the property of every German Jew, she dismissed in one impassioned word: Slander! She might not be the most savvy about the ins and outs of bilateral relations, but everyone knew that things were tense between Germany and America. False nonsense was printed in the papers all the time, with both sides trying to make the other look bad, but surely this was taking it too far.

  What can you say about Hitler, Miss Riefenstahl?

  What can I say? Leni said. Radiance streams from him.

  * * *

  —

  ARRIVING IN L.A., Leni was disappointed that it was so much uglier than she pictured it to be. What a bleak, sprawling, lifeless place! This was where the movies were made? She cheered up once they checked in to their accommodation, a large bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Now the town was beginning to live up to her expectations: flowering bird-of-paradise, orange and grapefruit trees, multiple swimming pools. L.A. had such a carefree mood, she wanted to feel like part of it. She repaired to the luxurious bathroom to shave her legs, so she could remove her stockings and paddle bare-legged by the pool. On her way back out she was met by an L.A.–based Gestapo agent. Excuse me! She exclaimed indignantly, gathering her bathrobe protectively about her décolletage.

  Miss Riefenstahl, he said, you must stop speaking to the papers.

  I am trying to make things better, she said.

  They are only getting worse, he said.

  How could that be, she said, unless the reports are true?

  It’s complicated, he said, but for you, it is straightforward. Keep your opinions on the pogrom and the Party to yourself. Sell your movie before it is too late, and head home.

  That very afternoon she was startled to see on a full page in the papers:

  THERE IS NO PLACE FOR HITLER’S FILMMAKER IN HOLLYWOOD.

  GO HOME LENI RIEFENSTAHL!

  What a shocker, especially when it had all been so lovely in New York! The notice was signed by the Anti-Nazi League in America. She called for an assistant to cable them immediately: I am not a member of the NSDAP. Politics do not interest me. Art does.

  It was too late. Meeting after meeting that had been lined up for her in advance was canceled. Distributors, production houses, directors, and actors who had been eager to meet with her just a few days ago wanted nothing to do with her now. Disconcerted, she dashed out a list of acquaintances with connections in town, whom she could call on within the realm of reason. She wrote Jo, with little hope she knew—even Babelsberg Studios back in Berlin had been buzzing about him and Marlene. Sternberg’s poor wife had filed for divorce, and even attempted to sue Marlene for being “a love pirate.” Leni tried to contrive a meeting with Charlie Chaplin, who had been in attendance at the MoMA screening of Triumph of the Will in New York. He’d looked surprisingly dapper as himself and not the Tramp, but had disturbed the mesmerized audience by emitting a throaty guffaw every now and then. His laughter had Leni befuddled. Was he being rude, or paying a compliment? Did a comic have no meter for aesthetics? Still she hoped to speak with him, but he’d left swiftly after with a bunch of French filmmakers who had awestruck expressions on their faces. She penned Chaplin a note, but before posting it found out he was one of the most prominent members of the Anti-Nazi League.

  No one wrote back to Leni.

  Only Walt Disney kept the appointment he’d made prior to her visit. She went on a tour of his animation studio, trying to look enthusiastic as he showed her sketches and layouts. Would you like to look through the multiplane camera? Leni observed a contrite Mickey chase a huffy Minnie across a busy street. There she was, at long last, in L.A.—talking to a man about a cartoon mouse!

  In other words, she’d blown it with Hollywood. When she got back to Berlin, she cried for days, sickened to learn that how the world outside saw her was completely at odds with how she was used to seeing herself back home. The world was unfair, full of falsifications. Her truth was much simpler: she’d befriended a man who admired her work, he gave her some money to make movies. What he did beyond that had nothing to do with her. It was hitting below the belt to lump them all together, Leni and the NSDAP, her movies and their actions, when she was not even a Party member, just an ordinary citizen. True, upon sighting a yellow-and-black armband pinned to a coat, she might cross a sidewalk earlier than she had to, so their paths remained separate. Noticing a Star of David painted on a shop window, she might avoid patronizing the place henceforth, not because she particularly supported the “Don’t buy from Jews, support German businesses” campaign, but just so she wouldn’t get into any trouble. That was all—and everyone she knew did the same thing, too. Now they were saying it was true that glass had been broken and people had died. No doubt that was terrible, but what did that have to do with her art and her person?

  XII

  Some of the Roma and Sinti extras cried when it was time for them to go. Leni took it upon herself to shush them. The whole crew would be leaving the Dolomites soon enough. Most would return to Berlin. She’d managed to secure for herself a ski cottage high up in Kitzbühel where she would begin editing Tiefland. Before they parted, they posed for a photograph together against an unspoiled view of the Sarntal Valley. Zazilia sat on her knee.

  Tante Leni, she said hopefully, do you have any more toffee?

  I’m afraid not, Zee, Leni told her.

  Leni nestled herself in the middle of the front row, adjusted her dirndl, and smiled. Her assistant counted to three. After the photograph was made, the twenty-three Roma and Sinti extras were loaded up onto the truck, one by one. Leni stood there with her crew to see them off. Last to board was the girl who’d played her body double. Before she got on, she said formally: Miss Riefenstahl, we would like to thank you. You have been so nice.

  It was wonderful having all of you, too, Leni said, turning to nod to everyone in the back of the truck. The body double approached Leni, but was prevented from coming too close by the Afrika Korps best boy.

  Do you remember, the body double said quietly, you said you owed me a favor?

  The truck’s engine was idling.

  When Leni did not respond, the woman went on: For being your body double on the back of the horse, because it was too dangerous for you, you could have been injured? Or have you forgotten?

  Sure I remember, Leni said, trying to sound offhand. What might I help you with?

  Can you do something for us, the body double said, about the camp? We don’t know where we will be taken after that, and we have heard stories—

  Rumors would be rumors. You could not fix everything for everyone, much less a gypsy. They should not have been allowed to sing. Give them a concession out of the goodness of your own heart and all of a sudden they expect you to bend backward and cartwheel for them like you owe them a living—

  Like I said, Leni said, it was wonderful having you on se
t, but I’m afraid the contract is up. I can show you a copy, if you want, she added. I can’t do anything about it, even if I would like to.

  We hear that you know people, the body double said, no longer in a quiet voice. Perhaps you could put in a word for us, change their minds—

  It’s quite clear you’ve never dealt with bureaucracy—

  Please, Miss Riefenstahl!

  The body double’s voice broke into a cracked wail as she bowed her head, hair just like Leni’s own falling over her face. Leni felt a wave of nausea. The familiar pangs of bladder colic began to radiate from hip to groin. The body double was on her knees now. Before the Afrika Korps best boy could stop her, she’d touched Leni’s shoe. Leni moved her foot away quickly. How embarrassing this was becoming, and in front of her whole crew, too. Never trust an itinerant to have enough dignity to engage in a civil conversation without resorting to something tricksy and dramatic. I need the bathroom, Leni said to the Afrika Korps best boy. Clean her knees, get her back on her feet, and load her up.

  When the Afrika Korps best boy stepped forward to handle the body double, she shrugged herself free from his grasp.

  Don’t you dare touch me, she said to him, I will go on my own.

  The body double heaved herself onto the back of the waiting truck. She said something to her people in Romani. Some who were crying stopped crying, and some who were not crying started. Only the children seemed to still be in their own world, looking back out at the set with no emotion. The Afrika Korps best boy jumped into the truck with them—he was to oversee their safe return to Camp Maxglan. The body double turned to Leni’s crew. Her fingers, gripping the edge of the truck, were white. Tell her, she said. Tell her our blood is on her hands, and she will never make another movie as long as she lives.

  The truck had already begun to pull away when Leni reemerged from the bathroom. It looked like her crew had done well to handle the sticky situation efficiently for her; the extras were all in the back of the truck with the Afrika Korps best boy guarding them, ready to set off. Sometimes it was easier when those of lesser power dealt with those with no power—the latter would not make ridiculous demands of the former as they would with someone in charge.

  Her assistant rushed forward with the contract, her painkillers, and a canteen of water. Thank you, she said, tucking the contract under her armpit for good measure. If the body double wanted to challenge her again, she would show her the clause as printed. She washed the methadone down with a cool gulp of water. The truck began to move off. From the back, a small hand began to wave. Squinting, Leni saw that it was Zazilia. A few other children copied the girl and began to wave, too. Leni found herself wiping away a tear. Oh, Leni said, I didn’t have time to say a proper good-bye, she was my favorite. Beside her, the line producer raised his walkie-talkie. He could radio the truck driver back. Leni shook her head. Let them be on their way, she said, they shouldn’t be late.

  The truck trundled forward.

  Bye-bye, Tante Leni, the girl shouted. I’ll never forget you!

  Good-bye, Zee, Leni hollered to the little girl, funneling her palms around her mouth so her voice could carry. I shan’t forget you, too!

  She dabbed her eyes as an upsurge of colic pain dug into her side.

  I think I’ll just go right ahead and pop one more methadone, she said to her assistant. The pill was given to her. She was sweating as she swallowed it. Leni waved and waved, stopping only when she could no longer see the little girl’s hand swinging from side to side.

  XIII

  The drive to Camp Maxglan was less than two hours long. It was a quiet afternoon. The path was steep, and the truck was moving at a very slow speed. In the rear, where he was keeping an eye on the extras, Hans Haas did not dare to make eye contact with any of them as he held on to his rifle.

  The extras did not talk, but midway through the trip, a middle-aged woman with deep-set eyes started clapping out a rhythm with her hands. She began to sing, alone. Then Miss Riefenstahl’s body double harmonized with her. A few others joined in. When the song ended, the body double stood up slowly. She kept her gaze level with Hans Haas’s as she backed away from him. In a few steady steps, she was at the edge of the back of the truck. She turned, pushed past the tarp, and jumped off. Through the gap in the tarp Hans Haas saw the body double rolling into the brush as she broke her fall and raised herself up.

  The middle-aged woman who had started singing the song stood up with a child in her arms. Hans Haas clenched his rifle. The woman crouched down, turning immediately to shield the child with her body. But when nothing happened and she saw that his hands were shaking, she went low on her knees and slid toward the back of the truck.

  Hans Haas did not move.

  If he fired now, the ringing would be so sudden and bright his eardrums might shatter. How disgusting to be unable to distance himself from this body. Was it really his? A body was a liability. He could not be responsible for how it needed to be fed and watered, night and day. He could not be responsible for how it wanted what it wanted, how there was nothing better than that pressing sensation in his tailbone, no, that had nothing to do with him. He could not be responsible for how he was up and about in the Dolomites while Schmitz was now rotting a few feet deep in North Africa. His wish on the desert star that never fell: that they could go home together.

  Where it had mattered, his body had chosen itself, but now that he was here, after all, without Schmitz, he could not say any of this was worth it. If he had nothing left to lose now, why was he still afraid? He was passive and tractable even as a schoolboy, always the one turning the rope, never the one jumping, but he had been sure that at the base of it all, he was a decent person. Naturally, most people must think that of themselves, and how many of them were just as wrong, when push came to shove? Here was a chance to rewrite his story, even if no one would tell it. All he had to do in the back of this truck was what he did best: nothing. His heart pounded so loudly in his chest he was sure everyone could hear it. Hans Haas did not know what the extras were running away from, but it had to be something frightful, if they thought that jumping off a truck in the middle of the mountains with no supplies was better than being brought back to the camp.

  He’d put his gun down.

  The middle-aged woman clambered off the back of the truck with the child. Everyone rushed to the back. A bent old man was helping a girl into a woman’s outstretched arms. If they all got away on his watch—Hans Haas’s eardrums rang. It was only then he realized he’d lifted his rifle again and pulled the trigger.

  XIV

  No one needs to hear about this, Leni said to the truck driver and the Afrika Korps best boy when they returned. The Doctor is just waiting for me to make one misstep so he can pounce on the production. Do I make myself clear?

  The extras had tried to jump off the back of the moving truck, but the Afrika Korps best boy fired a warning shot and they’d stopped and given chase. After expending a few more bullets, one of which hit an old man in the leg, they managed to get everything under control. The twenty-three extras were then tied down to one another with rope, and they were delivered back to Camp Maxglan without further incident. We should have chained them up from the start, the producer said. Can you imagine how much trouble we would be in if any of them got away?

  Early the next morning, when Leni saw Franz running toward them screaming, she thought he was practicing the scene in which he discovers that Martha the gypsy dancer has been married off to the evil marquis of Roccabruno.

  I can’t take this anymore, she said to him, this is not the opera.

  Hans Haas, Franz said, Hans Haas—

  Who?

  The Afrika Korps best boy—

  What about him?

  The tree, Franz gagged.

  * * *

  —

  AFTER THE BEST boy’s body was retrieved by the gaffer and the cinemat
ographer and placed out of sight under a sheet, they all sat shaken around a fire, drinking hot cocoa to assuage their nerves, everyone slowly converging on the unspoken agreement that it was definitely a puzzle: nothing out of sorts had happened, and while the best boy had been quiet, he had never seemed unstable. Why had he taken his own life out of the blue, when they had it so good here?

  Imagine, Leni’s assistant said, he could have turned his gun on us!

  That’s enough now, Leni said sharply.

  She was determined to do right by the poor boy, to send his body back to his loved ones in Germany with a personal letter of appreciation. The army personnel who came to collect his body said they were unable to contact his next of kin, listed as a certain Schmitz.

  It was too bad then, she would give him a proper burial here.

  She tipped her assistant to handle the matter.

  Leni’s assistant hired a Catholic priest from the village for a quiet ceremony. The best boy was buried in the valley at sunrise, alongside the scant personal items they found in his satchel: a woman’s purple fichu and one passport-sized photograph of a jowly man with an upturned collar and a jaunty smile. Only Franz and the cook’s daughter were in attendance. The rest of the crew was busy preparing for the day’s first scene. Franz had carved up a small remembrance into a stone to mark the best boy’s resting place up here in the mountains. All it said was “H.” The cook’s daughter brought with her a chicken wishbone, which she broke over the body. As the sun rose in the valley, misty peach over clear blue, the Catholic priest administered the Twenty-third Psalm in peasant Italian, and they all bowed their heads as they intoned together: Amen.