Or later, when the teacher took her to the shed in the schoolyard and put his hand between her thighs. When she didn’t move, he pushed the fabric of her panties to one side, pinching her cunt between his thumb and index finger. First he was hesitant, but when she said nothing, he grew bolder, pressed her between his fingers like he was trying to see if she could be flattened into nothing. She had never touched herself there, not even when she was bathing. Because he was the teacher, she told no one. He did not call upon her in class again, though she always had her hand up. Every time he picked someone else, she wanted to scream: Pick me. You think you know anything about me just because you touched me once? Pick me!
Or the flock of cranes she watched fly over the village one autumn. How did they know where they were going, what if they ended up in the wrong place?
Or the pimply colleague with sweaty palms in a back alley near the factory in Taishan, who had her dead drunk on cheap rice wine. Order whatever you want, he’d said that evening, dinner and drinks are on me tonight. Thanks, she said, the next one’s on me. Waking midway through with him already fumbling inside her, his breath stinking of grated ginger and black vinegar, she decided to continue to appear unconscious, because if he knew she was awake, then there would be no way to pretend to him or herself that it had not happened.
Or the assembly line in Shanghai, where all she did for half a year was stitch a logo onto the side of a shoe. She wished she could complete a whole shoe on her own for once. She sang Teresa Teng’s “What Do You Have to Say” in her head when she was bored. One time someone else picked up the tune, and she realized she had been singing it aloud. Despite the supervisor’s warning to cease and desist over the PA system, the whole group chimed in for the heartfelt final line of the chorus, their collective voice jouncing off the high walls of the factory:
你心里根本没有我
把我的爱情还给我
Or every tally mark in Marseilles, and the cold, perfunctory sensation that perhaps she had already been prepared for this—
* * *
—
THEY WERE AT the base of the Eiffel Tower when Ibrahim told her it was built in 1889.
She was shocked, but she was not sure why. He gave her some room to think it over for herself. Now is 1989, she said suddenly, with a forcefulness that surprised him. The tower has stood for a hundred years, he nodded, and it will be here for hundreds of years to come. She counted softly, like she was practicing her French numerals—2089, 2189, 2289. She let herself trail off. Yes, he said, catching the feeling of her meaning, we will not be here. No, she agreed, a little sadly, looking at him. We will not be. She was viewing the gorgeous monstrosity of the tower from below, between its latticed legs, and he was looking at her petite human proportions standing under seven million kilograms of puddled iron.
He asked: What is your real name, Bébé?
But Ibrahim, she said. Is there such thing as a real name?
An Urgent Task for Top Scientists at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin
XV
Everyone wants to know: Were you a Nazi? What sort of man was Hitler? Why did you make those movies? All I ask of you today is to listen with an open mind. Forget everything you think you know about me the instant you hear my name. Take a seat, and let me tell you my story in my own words. Everyone deserves that chance. I, too, have been a victim of circumstance. Doesn’t anyone see it from my point of view?
First things first, thank you for coming down to Bavaria to meet me at such short notice. As you know, yesterday was my 101st birthday and we had a big party at the Kaiserin Elisabeth on Lake Starnberg. They were so lovely to sponsor my gathering—the owner is a longtime fan.
No problem—go ahead and tape this conversation.
If I had something to hide, I would not have invited you into my home.
Would you like a cup of tea?
I am glad to be a little better now, and able to receive you in the sitting room. This morning, after reading the papers, I had such a fever I didn’t think I would be out of bed anytime soon. My temperature is down, but it still hurts all over. I’ll be straightforward. The doctor came by just now. All he gave me were painkillers. Everyone knows that when they do that, it’s not a good sign. I don’t know how much longer I have, and I’m tired, tired, tired of other people’s lies.
They have marked me for long enough. I have paid for them with my reputation, my time. What if I wanted to talk about the things I care about? Filmmaking craft. My career as an actress. How I became a director, what movies I like. Reminisce about old times in Berlin. Weigh in on Hollywood now. Relax and have a real conversation, you know?
No, that’s not permissible for Leni Riefenstahl.
The press has never cared to ask me about such topics. No offense, but you reporters are lazy. Relying on stereotypes and templates. Bent on seeing me one way, making my life hell, just because it makes a controversial headline, and people will talk about it.
I am sick of helping you all sell papers. I want to set things straight.
* * *
—
WE WERE CUTTING my birthday cake last night on the Kaiserin’s terrace when a message was faxed to the concierge. Thinking it was a greeting card, I had a waiter open and read it out loud in front of all my guests. That was a terrible mistake. You can see for yourself here:
“Frau Leni Riefenstahl is obliged to Zazilia Reinhardt, to no longer make or distribute the following claim or allow the following claim to be made or distributed: ‘After the end of the war, Frau Riefenstahl again met all of the gypsies who worked in the film Tiefland and nothing had happened to any single one of them.’ ”
Enclosed was a notice for a court case.
I did not want to cry on my birthday, at my party, but you will agree that this action is vicious and unscrupulous. They want to take a one-hundred-and-one-year-old woman to court for something she said out of goodwill more than half a century ago!
I have no doubt that my taking ill today is a result of the fax yesterday, and the bad press this morning. Are they going to pay my medical bills? What if it gave me a heart attack? Would they be charged with murder?
I have not taken my painkillers though I am in pain.
I want to remain perfectly lucid as I speak with you.
So let me say loud and clear: Who is this Zazilia Reinhardt?
Is she even a real gypsy?
How can they prove she was part of Tiefland?
Are they going to freeze-frame and match her face to each and every extra you can see in the larger scenes? I don’t think so! And even if she was, why is she speaking up more than fifty years later, if she was so unhappy about what I said, on principle? Or is Frau Reinhardt looking for an out-of-court settlement to set up a nice retirement nest egg for herself, now that she can’t play her fiddle on the streets anymore?
Further, my comments were only technical ones.
After the end of the war, I certainly hoped that nothing happened to any of my crew, my actors, my extras—regardless of race and religion, I don’t look at that. Gypsies or not, I wanted the best for everyone. I tried to stay in touch, but it was so chaotic, it would have been hard to check in with all of them. I could hardly even take care of myself! I had two hundred dollars left in my mother’s savings account and even that was seized from me. Worse, the Allies had stolen my Tiefland reels; they thought they could make a quick buck off me. It took me years just to get my footage back. By then they’d lost my assembly cut and I had to edit the entire film from scratch. What’s the point of stealing something from someone if you’re going to botch the job anyway?
Yes, I’ll come back to it—the fax said it was impermissible for me to make such a statement because they had proof that many of the gypsy extras I’d used on Tiefland had died in concentration camps after the shoot, and I should be held accountable.
But
how could that be my fault, when I did not know that the camps they were living in were those sorts of camps?
Well, I was under the impression that they were holding camps for the homeless, or labor camps for the unemployed. The worst thing we ever heard was that certain types of people might be sent off to Madagascar.
I am sorry for the suffering of Zazilia Reinhardt and her friends, but what could I have done? I was not a politician. I was a film director. I was an actress. And that was all so very long ago, why rake up the past? Why don’t these people move on and make something of themselves?
* * *
—
UNPLEASANT AS IT is, I’m not entirely surprised.
Open your eyes, this accusation has been designed by certain interest groups to coincide exactly with my one hundred first celebration and all the media attention I’ve been getting. There were all these press photographers hiding themselves around the lobby of the Hotel Elisabeth when I arrived yesterday. I told them there was no need to hide. I am proud of these wrinkles. I can still pull off heels and a nice dress. Just let me know when you want a picture. I’ll be happy to strike a pose, give a good smile for the camera.
Anyway, as I was saying, this Zazilia woman is just a front.
The organization behind her is a human-rights group for gypsies based in Cologne. Have you ever heard of them? Neither have I. Till today, right? With my name involved now, the papers are writing about them. Court case or no court case, they’re seeking more attention and donations for their crazy hippie causes.
They’ve used my birthday as a publicity stunt!
They are trying to drive me to the grave, but they do not know just how strong I am. And they have forgotten I have nothing to be afraid of, I am certified innocent. Four times I stood trial after the war. Four times I walked free. I was found not guilty of any crime whatsoever. I can show you the verdicts. So what are these human-rights groups banging on about, if not for some free exposure because no one would be interested in writing about them otherwise?
* * *
—
I’M USED TO accusations and insults. They have taught me so much.
Don’t expect the world to be kind to you when everyone is clamoring for their own lost cause. The most difficult part? Hardening your skin to the cruelty of others—but not your soul.
I’ve come a long way. Now I see it all as a test of fortitude and grace.
Fighting my court case as a young woman back then, I woke early each morning to repeat the words “Nazi slut” out loud. A hundred, two hundred times, whatever it took. Till they had no effect. Just a few syllables of gibberish. You can make yourself get used to almost anything. The hecklers might as well have been shouting “Hey, lady.” In court, I did not even dare pronounce the name “Hitler.” Reporters will add salt and vinegar to anything. A gossip rag printed that “his name melted on her tongue.” Give me a break. You are writing a news report, not a romance novel. And let me ask you something. Have you ever received a rape threat?
No?
I didn’t think so.
Have you ever considered that what you write about someone might make her the recipient of rape threats? Every time the papers printed things like “his name melted on her tongue,” I received a fresh deluge of hate mail, rape threats.
Justice will not be served until I break your legs and leave you to beg for mercy in a public place. Suck my—you will excuse me—suck my cock as I skin you alive, my sister died in the gas chambers. Let me pound your snatch so you can tell me I’m bigger than Hitler.
Of course, the best part was how self-righteous they were.
Men I did not know were telling me what they would do with my body, because they were seeking redress for the inhuman acts of the Nazis!
In those days I wept, reading such things.
I tried to change addresses every few months so people couldn’t reach me. Finally I told each landlord to nail up my mailbox, it was better that way.
These days—water off a duck’s back. You can’t ruffle these feathers.
XVI
Marlene Dietrich? Why, I have no opinion on her.
I’m afraid I don’t consider her my contemporary, no.
That angle is old hat, and misleading to say the least. I’d advise you not to write about her in relation to me, I know where you’re heading with this—there’s already been a stupid article comparing us, calling her behavior “exemplary” and mine “dishonorable,” as two possible paths for a German woman living through the same difficult times. Nothing new to me—when you reporters runs out of juice, you’ll rehash old favorites.
Let me give you a fresh angle, if you insist.
The essential difference between Marlene and me is not a political one, but an artistic one. She was only an actress. I am a filmmaker. Do you see what I mean? An actress waits around until someone wants her in a movie, until a director tells her to do something. Walk across the room, sit down, turn your head. Shut up and look beautiful.
I can speak only for myself, but that was not what I wanted.
I had my own ideas. I made decisions. I told people what to do.
Marlene and I are often compared, but there is no comparison to be made. She might have been desired, but I was respected. And frankly, if Marlene didn’t want to be seen, why would she have installed herself on the Champs-Élysées to be a shut-in? Glamour girls like Marlene were afraid to be seen when they got old, but they were used to the shine of the high life. She died in ’92, didn’t she? That’s a whole ten years ago now. I heard she was an invalid and a hermit for the last fifteen years of her life. That must have been horrible. I am so active, being bedridden alone would have killed me.
* * *
—
NO, NO, YOU’VE got it wrong, I’m younger than Marlene, not older! I was born in 1902. She was born in 1901, but she fibbed about it whenever she could: 1905, 1911, hogwash. Most women are sensitive about their age. I’m not like most women. I’ll have your readers know—this is what one hundred one looks like! Good genes for sure, but also what you put into your body. I’ve never smoked a single cigarette in my life, and I don’t like drinking alcohol. It’s all paid off, yes, thank you—everyone is always telling me I look fantastic for my age.
The only time I ever lied about it was when I shaved thirty years off for my scuba-diving test. I was seventy-two. The age limit was fifty. Something about it being dangerous for the lungs. No one could tell, and I got my cert. I must be the oldest scuba diver in the world.
I want to get better so I can squeeze in a diving trip for Christmas.
Seychelles, or the Maldives—you should try it sometime. Underwater, you feel so free. It’s quiet there. No one is blaming you for anything, and there are no walls. You’re just swimming into the space ahead of you. I’ve always been at one with nature. Marlene might have appeared in Vogue, but she would be all done up in lipstick, a nice dress, stilettos. When I was on the cover of Time, I was in ice boots, tights, alpine skis, with no makeup, going up a mountain!
Marlene was trying to look fashionable.
I was just climbing a mountain.
* * *
—
I DIDN’T KNOW Marlene personally, but we shared a street corner.
Her building entrance was on Hindenburgstraße, parallel to mine. I lived on the fifth floor and she on the third. If I wanted to, I could see into her windows from my roof terrace, but of course I was not that type of woman. I mind my own business.
Marlene was married to Rudi, a producer who had cast her in a short film. Quite a handsome guy, but she still had men outside her marriage. Women, too. Looking out onto the street from my desk, I saw Marlene’s valentines loitering on the sidewalk. They would throw pebbles at her window or leave letters in her mailbox, or flowers on top of it. She just let them accumulate! Her husband was the one who brought in
the mail and took out the trash.
I thought maybe this was one of those marriages of convenience.
You know, where the man is primarily attracted to men, and the woman to women. That I would have been better able to understand, but I was told that this was not the case. Not to poke my nose into their private matters, but Berlin was a strange place at that time. If I hadn’t been born in Berlin, I would never have gone to that city. Munich or Frankfurt might have suited me better. Berlin was too fast. I received heaps of invitations, but I avoided the party circuit. Nightclubs frequented by performers, artists, writers, and musicians. No companion of theirs was seen on an arm twice. Everyone had stopped looking to Caspar David Friedrich’s beautiful paintings. They were singing George Grosz’s praises, just because he was drawing humans all broken up! I am all for innovation, but I hate trendiness. People who do something differently just to stand out. Like the Dadaists. A theatrical bunch of big babies who did not want to grow up. Hannah Höch was a Dadaist because she did not have talents of her own, needed to stick two or three existing things together and call them art. Worse, along the whole stretch of Ku’damm were men who dressed as women. Why anyone would do such a thing was beyond me. Once I was standing next to one of them, and he—or she, or should I say “it”—it reached into its bosom, pulled out a powder puff that it was using to stuff its brassiere, and touched up its nose. Oh, for shame!
Those were the types of people Marlene associated herself with.
Not my crowd, no.
* * *
—
TWICE I’D BUMPED into Marlene outside our neighborhood.
Each time she pretended she had no idea who I was.
This wasn’t very nice of her! She must have known I was in the business, since even I knew she was an aspiring actress. She might have been envious of me at that time. She was just starting out, you know. It’s understandable. I didn’t hold it against her.
Delayed Rays of a Star Page 27