K Jeter - The Kingdom of Shadows

“You saw, did you not? As soon as you stepped into the hall.” Von Behren nodded slowly as he spoke. “I know that stories get told abroad; that any actress who wishes to appear in German films must first acquire permission from the head of the Propaganda Ministry, a magic piece of paper with the signature of Reichsminister Goebbels on it. And this, of course, gives him what you would perhaps call the privilege of the casting couch – that’s what they would say in Hollywood, is it not? The parade goes through the door of his office and leaves by the back way, each pretty Madchen adjusting her clothes back in place.” Von Behren leaned forward, turning his head to look into Wise’s eyes. “But you see, don’t you, that it’s not really as simple as that. Even if he were not the Reichsminister; even if he did not have such power, and the rich man’s things that go with it – still the women would look at him that way. They did before, when he was nothing, a skinny little man in a dirty trench coat, with spittle flying from his mouth as he stood on boxes on streetcorners, shouting over the heads of a troop of paunchy, beer-soaked stormtroopers.” The director’s voice warmed to the subject, the words spilling out, as though pushed by a grudging admiration of Goebbels’ self-willed transformation. “Even then…” He smiled, a conspirator in the knowledge of the world. “What is that American expression I found so colorful? Ah, yes – even then, our good minister enjoyed a great many – what is the word? – conquests. That’s the saying, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sure – that’s how you say it.”

Marte watched as Wise nodded in turn. The way the men spoke, so cruelly about such things – that disgusted her. Not the speaking, but the forgetting – as if she were no longer standing there with them, hearing every word. Not for the first time, she wanted to throw her empty glass to the floor, turn and stride away – but she knew she couldn’t. Not yet. Not while the things of which the men spoke, Joseph and all the rest, so mattered to her.

“Are you well?” Von Behren peered with concern at the American. “You’ve gone very pale.”

Wise took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “I’m all right.”

“Some things are not good to think upon, Herr Wise.”

Marte saw a spark of anger flash in the American’s eyes.

“How do you know what I’m thinking about?”

Von Behren smiled. “Oh, I know a great deal about you, Herr Wise. About how you came to be here. And what you came looking for. Or perhaps more properly, who.”

“Really?” It was obvious the American didn’t like people knowing such things. “And why’s that?”

“ Aber naturlich – you have come to speak with a certain young woman.” The director gestured toward Marte beside him. “And so you have.”

Wise turned and studied the smaller man. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “What’s the deal?”

Von Behren smoothed the point of his beard with his hand. “Let us speak frankly, Herr Wise, as professionals in the business of making films. You hire screenwriters to put down the words for the actors to speak, and I try to get those words, and the images that accompany them, into the camera, to make a little world inside there. But we needn’t flatter ourselves. We know, don’t we, that the face, the one up on the screen, so much bigger than all the little ones watching in the darkness – that’s the only thing that’s real, is it not? And a beautiful woman’s face…” He shrugged. “What is more real than that? What has more power?”

“You did it.” The realization broke upon Wise. “You’re the one who sent the print of your film to me.”

“No, not directly. Some things need to be done more subtly than that. One cannot catch certain hares so easily. Let us just say… I arranged to have it sent.”

“Why?” Wise regarded the other man. “What do you think you’re going to get out of all this?”

“I never thought; I only hoped. That when you saw my Marte…” Von Behren glanced toward her, then brought his gaze back. “You are someone who makes things possible, are you not? Many things… for all sorts of people…”

That was when she knew. Why the director – the one who had discovered her, made her his protegee – had sent a print of her film so far away. To America, and to Herr David Wise. He had confided in her that such was his intent, but that she was to remain quiet about it, and not let Joseph know. He had bound her to silence, and now she knew why.

She had known as soon as the American had turned his gaze again toward her. This time, their eyes had met, and she had not looked away. For what she saw there was the same as that burning spark she saw in Joseph’s eyes. Desire, that would not rest until it had grasped all that for which it longed.

“ Herr Wise…” Marte spoke softly. She tilted her head, so that she looked at him through her lashes. There was no need for a script, for her to know the lines to speak now. “You have traveled so much. You must be tired…”

She listened to him, to the words of his voice, one after another. Coming from a great distance, as though she were listening to him on the radio, as though she weren’t with him in the great high-ceilinged room at all. A dream… that was what it felt like, as she closed her eyes and let his voice flow past, wrapping itself around her, a familiar embrace.

But different, as well. That was how she knew it wasn’t the radio, it wasn’t the sharp whip of the Reich’s Propaganda Minister lacerating the enemies of the German Volk, or describing the present and coming glories that the Fuhrer would bestow upon the faithful, upon all the uplifted, eager faces. Joseph’s other voice, the private one, almost a whisper. Meant for only one other person; meant for her. The voice she had heard when she had lain in his arms, his bare chest against her breasts, crushing her to him, as though one body could devour another. His mouth close to her ear, so his voice could tell of his worship, his love for the golden thing he’d won, the angel that had descended to the heavy earth and the gaze of men, his gaze.

Marte… The last word he would speak, before he would close his eyes, the lashes brushing her face, letting his other senses drink in the scent and presence of her. Her name, an incantation, a simple faith…

“There have been things said. Things about us.” Now Joseph didn’t look at her as he spoke; he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the long delicate fingers squeezed bloodless in his anguish. He gazed across the Wilhelmplatz at the dark shape of the Reich Chancellery, and the night sky beyond it. “The lies… the whispering… all of it, again and again.”

How silly of him – she could almost smile to herself as she listened. They weren’t lies, they were the truth. The things that people said, the whispers that circled about her like the dark shadows of birds. Women on the street pointing her out to each other as she passed by, the actors and crews on the film sets watching her and then turning away with shrugs and single raised eyebrows, sharing their cynical knowledge of how things worked in this world. Everybody knew the truth about them, about her and Joseph. Had he spoken so many lies himself, that he could no longer tell the difference?

“They have the ear of the Fuhrer. They’ve poisoned his mind… against you.” He lowered his head, his narrow shoulders slumping forward. “Marte…” Her name, that invocation again, but spoken this time in a voice that could barely emerge from his throat, as though it were his last breath. “We must not see each other again. Ever…”

She wondered whether she should go to him, wrap her arms around him, rock him against the cradle of her breast. “But that’s what you’ve said before.”