From Wilkinson, a thin smile. ‘America is isolationist, he isn’t. America doesn’t want to fight, he does. But he can’t, politically can not, and what truly hurt was the appeasement at Munich — all over the US the sentiment was, “if the Europeans don’t want to fight Germany, why should we?”’
‘They don’t know what goes on there,’ Stahl said, more passion in his voice than he intended. ‘If they did…’
‘And if my grandmother had wheels she’d be a cart,’ Wilkinson said. ‘It’s not that Americans don’t know what goes on, endless articles have been written in the liberal press, in small magazines, but that has no effect on the population — people in small towns, “just plain folks”, as they say. So FDR and the people around him are looking for an opening, some damning intelligence that lets the American people know they’re threatened, not just some Frenchy with a moustache. The army and navy attaches do their jobs, they count aeroplanes and cannons and ships, but the president needs to know what the Nazis are up to, and he’s enlisted his friends, rich and powerful friends, to learn what goes on. They have money, and plenty of nerve, and there’s at least a chance they’ll find something.’ The cigar had gone out, Wilkinson looked at it in disgust and squashed it into the clamshell.
‘I didn’t set out to be in the Foreign Service, Fredric. As I told you earlier, I’m a Wall Street lawyer. But they got me appointed Second Secretary and here I am. Why me? Well, my mother’s people came from Holland, a long time ago, we’re one of those old Dutch families up the Hudson River and we’re distantly related to the Roosevelts. This work is, as I said, improvisation, so we use whoever’s around, if we can trust them.’
‘Even movie actors,’ Stahl said.
‘Movie stars, Fredric.’
‘At one point, I don’t think I mentioned it, Orlova gave me back the ten-reichsmark note and said something like, “for next time”. Is there a next time?’
‘I don’t know, maybe. Would you do it again if I asked you?’
‘Whatever you want,’ Stahl said. ‘You know where to find me.’
12 November.
Heading off for work, Stahl was beckoned by the clerk at the front desk, who handed him a letter from America. The return address said The William Morris Agency, with an address in Beverly Hills that Stahl knew well. His agent, Buzzy Mehlman, had scrawled a note on agency stationery: ‘Attaboy, keep up the good work! Buzz.’ The note was accompanied by a clipping from the Variety gossip column where the phrase we hear headed every item. WE HEAR that Fredric Stahl’s new film for Paramount France, Apres la Guerre, has started production in Paris and that leading man Stahl is working hard at publicity for the European market.
Stahl was relieved. Apparently he needn’t have worried what impression his trip to Berlin made back home. A deft hand, in the press release: he hadn’t been in Germany, he’d been in Europe. Someone, somewhere, had protected him.
Out at Joinville, the day crept by at tortoise speed. Stahl couldn’t stop thinking about what would follow the day’s shooting — a visit to Renate Steiner’s workroom in Building K. Script in hand, he went through the scene he’d play once the cameras rolled but, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, his mind summoned images of what he hoped for that evening.
In the studio, a hayloft set had been built and here the legionnaires would spend the night — supposedly in Roumania, just across the border from Hungary. In this scene, Justine Piro’s false countess Ilona and Stahl’s Colonel Vadic first discover they are falling in love. Pasquin’s and Gilles Brecker’s characters have gone off to search for food, Ilona and the colonel are alone. Outside the hayloft window, the lighting designer had created twilight, the soundmen would provide distant rumbles of thunder, and the music, added later, would complete the illusion.
Ilona, in a black cotton dress, her hair worn loose and artfully disordered, is lying on her side in the hay, her head propped on her hand, the colonel sits with his arms clasped around his knees. The first shot took a long time to set up — Avila wanted Ilona’s face lit a certain way and the spot had to be adjusted again and again until he was satisfied. Then, when he had what he wanted, there was a problem with the camera. Meanwhile, dust from the hay made Stahl and Piro sneeze, and Stahl’s back started to hurt every time he got himself into position.
At last, the camera was ready and Piro delivered Ilona’s line: ‘You know, I was a little afraid of you, at first.’
In the distance, the thunder rumbled.
‘Afraid? Of me?’
‘Cut!’ Avila shouted. The spot lighting Ilona’s face was flickering on and off. ‘Louis, we need another bulb.’
‘It’s not the bulb, chief.’
‘Where’s the electrician?’
‘He’s wiring the other set.’
‘Would someone go and find him, please. Quickly.’
And so on, for hours. Every time they got something to work, something else didn’t. Or a line was fluffed, or the thunder was too loud.
By three-twenty, Avila had had enough. ‘The gods are against us today,’ he said. ‘We’ll start here in the morning; nine-thirty sharp, everybody.’
Finally, Stahl thought. He felt drained, but some Strega and conversation in Building K would fix that, he just needed time to recover. Then, as he was headed to his dressing room to change out of his uniform, one of the studio office workers handed him a telephone message. Wolf Lustig’s office in Berlin telephoned, can you please call them back as soon as possible. There followed a telephone number.
Stahl’s first reaction was irritation — what the hell did he want? Stahl had never met Wolf Lustig but he knew who he was: one of the most prominent producers at the UFA studios in Babelsberg — Germany’s Hollywood — and UFA was the biggest, and now almost the only, film company in Germany. Taking off his uniform tunic, Stahl wondered if he had to call back, then put off deciding until the morning. What would Wolf Lustig want with him? By the time Stahl had brushed his hair, he thought he knew. This was not film business, this was Emhof business, Moppi business. Somewhere in his mind, Stahl had decided that once he was done with the festival, those people would be done with him. How naive, he thought. Now the decision to call back would have to be taken in a different light. No, he thought, now he would have to call back, because that was ‘Wilkinson business’.
Outside, the late-afternoon sun had broken through, shafts piercing the rain clouds, and the wet tiles on the roof of Building K shimmered in the light. The door to Renate Steiner’s workroom was open, Stahl looked in from the threshold and called out, ‘Hello? Renate?’
The response was a small shriek. Renate was standing on the platform in front of the mirror, in profile to Stahl, wearing a peasant blouse, panties, garter belt, black stockings, and no shoes. She hurried for the shelter of the curtain, leaving Stahl with an image of very white, full thighs and well-shaped legs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I…’
From behind the curtain: ‘Why are you so early?’
‘Avila let us go.’
‘Close your eyes.’
He heard her walking quickly, then opened his eyes to see her wrapped in the blue smock. ‘Shall I try the entry again?’
She laughed. ‘Bad boy, you surprised me.’
‘I am sorry, I didn’t mean to…’
‘Oh it doesn’t matter. Your undershirt’s on a hanger by the platform. Why don’t you try it on while I get decent.’
Stahl took off his blazer and shirt and pulled the undershirt over his head. In the mirror, the undershirt fit perfectly, falling just so across his shoulders. Meanwhile, Renate was again dressed as usual. As she approached him, he saw a faint rose colour on her cheeks. The glimpse he’d had of her had aroused him, the blush did nothing to change that. Renate stared at Stahl’s image in the mirror, put her silver-rimmed glasses on, then took them off. ‘What do you think?’ she said.
‘It’s perfect.’
She took the bottom of the shirt and shook it, then let it fall back in place. ‘Can you take a little walk for me?’
Stahl squared his shoulders in Colonel Vadic’s military posture, walked to the wall, turned, stood for a
