followed. All those years with an agent she didn’t really need, she thought, and now that she might actually need one… A few carefully placed stories in the press extolling her virtues as a heroine of the resistance would surely do the trick. Or maybe not — disloyalty was always frowned on, even if the object was beyond redemption. And the German public would probably still find her screen portrayals more memorable than her real life. The wonder of movies!
As she walked down the third floor corridor, sounds of conversation and laughter behind several closed doors gave her a frisson of pleasure. Something was happening here, some antidote to the deadness outside.
She knocked on the door of Room 17, and received a gruff summons to enter. Inside, a man in his late fifties or early sixties rose from a dustylooking sofa with a smile and outstretched hand. He still had all his hair, but it was almost white, and the face below was deeply lined. ‘Fraulein Koenen, welcome back to Berlin.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He moved a pile of papers from an armchair, and made room for them on an already overcrowded desk. ‘Please…’ he said.
She sat down and smiled at him. She didn’t think she’d ever met him, but there was something familiar about his face.
‘We did meet once,’ he said. ‘In this building, in the summer of 1934. August the 6th — I remember the date because that was the day that I quit. I was the original producer for Storm over Berlin, but they didn’t like what I had in mind, and I refused to make the changes they asked for. Someone else took over, of course, but, well…’
It had been Effi’s third film, and her biggest part to date. Her portrayal of the wife of a storm trooper beaten to death by communists had done wonders for her career; when fans approached her in succeeding years it was almost always that role which they remembered.
She looked at Kuhnert, wondering if the producer was expecting some sort of mea culpa.
He wasn’t. ‘I’m aware of your work during the war, your resistance work, I mean.’
‘Oh, how?’
‘I’m a Party member,’ he said, as if that explained it.
If the Soviets were behind the movie, she supposed it did. ‘Is this…’ She hesitated, uncertain how to phrase the question. ‘This film — are the Russians sponsoring it? Or the KPD?’
‘No, no, no,’ he insisted. ‘There are comrades involved — beside myself, I mean — but this is a commercial project. My own company is financing it. And we are based in the British sector. All the outside filming will be done here, only the interiors at Babelsberg.’
‘The studios are still standing?’
‘They were hardly damaged. Although most of the equipment was stolen.’
‘Who by?’
‘Ah, who knows?’ He waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss the matter, which told Effi that the Russians must have been responsible.
‘Who else is involved?’ she asked him. ‘Who’s directing?’
‘We’re still hoping that Ernst Dufring will be available.’
‘Only hoping?’
‘He wants to do it — he really likes the script. And he says he’s keen to work with you. A week ago everything seemed fine, but the British authorities asked him in for a second interview — since we’re based in their sector we need their permission to hire anyone — and now they’re looking into whatever he told them. We don’t know why they called him back — the Americans may have asked them to, or another German may have denounced him. We should know in a few days, and if the news is bad, we’ll just have to go with someone else.’
‘But there is a finished script?’
‘Oh yes. And it’s good. Have you heard of Ute Faeder?’
‘Yes, a long time ago. She had a good reputation.’ Another who had dropped from sight soon after the Nazi takeover.
‘And most of the casting has been done,’ Kuhnert went on. He reeled off a list of names, and all those that Effi recognised were good actors.
‘Do we have a title yet?’ she asked. She knew it was silly, but her films had never felt real until they had a proper title.
‘Nothing definite. “The Man I Shall Kill” is the current favourite.’
‘Mmm. And no date for shooting yet?’
‘No, I’m sorry. It’s frustrating for everyone,’ he went on, correctly interpreting her expression. ‘So many of us have been waiting for this moment, here and in exile, waiting for the chance to start again, to reclaim German cinema, to make it what it was, a world leader. But the obstacles are still enormous. The war’s been over for six months, and not a single film has gone into production.’
‘Why?’
Kuhnert shrugged. ‘No one knows for sure. The Americans are the main problem, and the cynical among us think that Hollywood fears the competition. There’s certainly plenty of their product on show here. But the Americans authorities say it’s all about cleaning up the German industry, that after Goebbels and Promi they have to be sure that anyone with the slightest smudge on their record is banned from working in it.’
‘That sounds a bit unrealistic.’
‘Doesn’t it? And that’s why most people agree with the cynics. Either way, there’s nothing we can do but press ahead, jump through all the hoops they put in front of us, and make sure we’re ready when the time ever comes. And we’re going ahead with some informal rehearsals, starting tomorrow. I’ve got a script for you somewhere.’ He rummaged around in one of the desk drawers and brought out a string-bound manuscript. ‘You’re Lilli, of course.’
‘Will the rehearsals be here?’
‘No, at Dufring’s house in Schmargendorf. Tomorrow’s starts at ten. I’ll write down the address for you,’ he added, reaching for a pen. ‘If you’re desperate for other work in the meantime, the Russians are hiring German actors to dub their own films out at Babelsberg. And there are quite a few theatre companies putting on plays. I could ask around for you.’
‘Thanks, but I’m not desperate. And I have some lost relatives to look for, which will probably take a while.’
‘Okay. Here’s the contract,’ he said, passing it over. ‘I know the money’s terrible, but it’ll be worthless in a few weeks anyway. The ration card is what matters, and yours is the highest grade. You won’t go hungry.’
Effi skimmed her way through the two-sheet contract. Neuefilm, the name of Kuhnert’s production company, rang no bells, but that was hardly surprising. The money was indeed derisory by her past standards, but, as he’d said, the ration card was what mattered. That and the chance to work again.
She borrowed his pen to sign it.
Kuhnert seemed pleased. He reached for a small pile of cards on his desk, riffled through them, and handed her a ration card. Her name and ‘Actor: leading roles’ had been typed in the appropriate spaces. He also passed across two sheets of paper. ‘Here’s Dufring’s address, and this is your certification from the Spruchkammer.’
‘The what?’
‘It’s the committee which examines each artist’s political background, before granting permission to work. It’s based in this building.’
‘Who set it up?’
Kuhnert shrugged. ‘Its own members, initially. But the Russians accepted them, and so did the Western allies when they arrived. No one wants the Nazis back.’
‘Of course not,’ Effi agreed.
‘But you will need clearance from the British. I’m assuming that you never joined the National Socialist Party.’
‘God no, but I was a member of the Reichskulturkammer.’
‘All working actors were — that shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘All right. So where do I go for British clearance?’
‘Oh, upstairs. One floor up. They’re at the back of the building. Just show them the Spruchkammer certificate.’ He offered his hand again, and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Until tomorrow.’
She decided she rather liked him, and wondered how he’d spent the last ten years. A question for another
