curtain away from the small square window. A black Mercedes limousine swerved onto the field, coming to a halt parallel to the airplane’s progress. Two small swastika flags trailed from the automobile’s front fenders. She recognized it; she had ridden in it herself, many times, sinking deep into the plush leather upholstery. A pale visage showed behind the rolled-down window, a piercing gaze directed toward the airplane. The dark eyes connected straight to Marte’s own, a line stretching to an invisible thread between the man and the woman.
Von Behren grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight. He had spotted the Mercedes as well, the gleam of its black metal. There was still time, for everything to go wrong – the Reichsminister could have changed his mind, become just a man again, instead of the Fuhrer ’s loyal servant. He might have listened to the orders from his heart and thrown away everything else, the wealth, the power – all for her. A pack of motorcycles from the Berlin Polizei could come roaring from behind the limousine, swoop across the field, block the airplane from traveling any farther. The pilot might already be cutting the engines, obeying a last-minute command from the airfield’s tower…
It could all happen, in a moment, in the blink of an eye…
Nothing happened.
None of the other passengers had noticed the black Mercedes at the edge of the field. The face at the limousine’s window grew smaller with distance, until it was lost behind them. The American folded his newspaper to another page and went on reading.
When the airplane was safely aloft, banking against the clouds, von Behren let go of her hand.
“Everything will be all right now.” He patted her forearm. “You’ll see. Everything will be fine…”
She turned away, gazing out the small window beside her. The earth fell far below them.
It didn’t matter. If everything would be all right or not. Things would happen, the gears of the world’s machinery, seen and unseen, would turn regardless. What would happen only mattered to the other ones, the ones who existed, who were real.
Not her.
She leaned her brow against the cold window, falling from one dream to another, endlessly…
LOS ANGELES
1940
Perhaps really he was a dead king, from the region of terrors. And he was still cold and remote in the region of death, with perfumes coming from his transparent body as if from some strange flower.
ELEVEN
“I believe Mr. Wise expects me.”
The secretary glanced up at Marte. “I’ll see if he’s free right now.” The look from the woman continued for a moment longer, before she swivelled her chair around toward the intercom box.
She knew what the secretary’s appraisal meant. There were two secretaries here in the lobby of David Wise’s office, both young and good-looking enough; perhaps they could have gone for bit parts out on the production lot rather than sitting here all day behind their typewriters and stacks of mail. But they both had in their eyes that little smoldering spark, a seed of both contempt and envy, that the merely pretty always directed toward the beautiful. The same here in Hollywood as it had been in Berlin – the unspoken accusation that the beauty wasn’t enough, that it had to be what she had done with it, in private, that accounted for the way men, including the estimable Herr Wise, looked at her.
There was nothing she could do about it. She had long ago stopped feeling anything when it happened.
The secretary turned back to her. “It’ll just be a couple of minutes.” Efficient.
Marte sat and waited, flipping through the pages of an American magazine. The printed words were still opaque to her; she had to translate them from English into German inside her heard, to know what they meant. Speaking it was easier, it was just like reciting lines in front of a camera. That was the pay-off from all the coaching she had gotten from Mr. Wise, with dialogue from movies he had produced. Hours of practice, on the long stage- by-stage journey – Berlin to Paris, then to Liverpool and the ocean liner. And the long train ride, cities and then the empty desert spaces, that had looked to her like the place where the world ended. It had made sense that Hollywood lay on the other side of all that, a place where everything could be made from nothing, a blank piece of paper for men like Wise to write upon.
She looked up, through the window next to her. In the distance, at the edge of the Wise Studios lot, stood the Taj Mahal. Not the real thing, a replica, a false front made of wood and plaster, the paint that had imitated the jewel-like tiles flaking from the heat of the California sun. It had been built for some historical epic several years ago, heroic British soldiers in the service of their far-flung empire; taken from a book by Kipling, perhaps, transmuted into perfect romance by Wise’s staff of writers. Just that one set was bigger than anything she had ever seen at the UFA studios in Babelsberg, outside Berlin.
She returned her attention to the magazine. As she deciphered its words, she was aware of someone watching her. From the farther side of the waiting room – a tall, lanky man, with thinning red hair, wearing an unstylish checked jacket. When she looked up, she saw him keeping his gaze on the newspaper he held unfolded in front of himself, as though idly catching up on the baseball scores. Wilson; that was his name. David had even introduced his head of studio security to her, and the man had smiled and shaken her hand, and told her that if there was anything she ever needed, then she only had to call him. She knew that if he was watching her, that was just part of his job, something that David had asked him to do -
“Marte!”
The magazine was pulled from her hands and tossed onto the table on the other side of the chair. She raised her eyes and saw a smiling David Wise standing in front of her.
“God, you’re looking great.” He reached down and took both her hands in his, bringing her to her feet. “Rose took you downtown, got you all fitted out?”
She nodded. The head of the Wise Studios’ costuming department had spent all of yesterday with her on Wilshire Boulevard, taking her through the private fitting rooms of the shops, plush-lined sanctuaries where tea was invariably offered before the tape measures flew and the racks of dresses were wheeled in. The small woman with her bob of jet-black hair and gogglelike horn-rimmed glasses had torn through the offerings, yanking out the ones which she had approved. Those had been boxed, after Marte had tried them on and they had gotten past the other woman’s critical scowl, and sent on, with no exchange of money needed. The studio settled its accounts on a quarterly basis – or so the costuming head had informed her.
“Ladies, I ask you -” Wise took her elbow and turned her toward the secretaries. “Isn’t she looking swell?”
The same dim spark was in the other women’s eyes as they looked over their shoulders at her. “Lovely, Mr. Wise,” said one. They both turned back to their typewriters.
“I’m really glad you came by today.” Wise steered Marte toward the door of his office.
“But you asked me to.”
He shrugged. “People in this town, you ask ’em to breathe, they want to know what’s in it for them. Don’t you worry about that, though.” He had laid his arm around her shoulder; with his other hand, he reached for the door knob. “Trust me, people will always be nice to you.”
The office was dark except for the film screen. Standing in the middle of the room, Marte turned and saw her silhouette at the bottom of a battle scene. Shouts and explosions – a squadron of soldiers, dressed in the uniforms of 1914, charged with their rifles and bayonets through a forest, as the earth around them erupted into great bursts
