section.
'How about The Scarlet Empress at the Tauenzienpalast?' I said. Dagmarr said that she'd seen it twice.
'What about this one?' she said. ' The Greatest Passion, with Ilse Rudel. That's her new picture, isn't it? You like her, don't you? Most men seem to.' I thought of the young actor, Walther Kolb, who Ilse Rudel had sent to do murder for her, and had himself been killed by me. The line-drawing on the newspaper advertisement showed her wearing a nun's veil. Even when I had discounted my personal knowledge of her, I thought the characterization questionable.
But nothing surprises me now. I've grown used to living in a world that is out of joint, as if it has been struck by an enormous earthquake so that the roads are no longer flat, nor the buildings straight.
'Yes,' I said, 'she's all right.'
We walked to the cinema. The red Der Sturmershowcases were back on the street corners and, if anything, Streicher's paper seemed more rabid than ever.
