by Terry Frei
“Win lots of gold, gentlemen!” Wolfe bellowed.
Thea, strikingly tall herself, looked over her shoulder, and it seemed to Glenn that she was trying to make it clear she was just putting up with him to his door—and not beyond.
“That dame is gorgeous,” Torrance said, voicing the obvious. “And she even looks smart. So . . . what’s she doing with that asshole?”
Towns reacted in mock horror. “Wait,” he announced to Torrance, “you are belittling a true Southern gentleman of arts and letters, one of the finest craftsmen in the history of American Literature, a titan of the written word!”
Torrance gave him a withering look.
Towns laughed and added, “Our Modern American Literature professor called him all that, and I was brought up to believe that if an LSU professor says it, it must be true. So I just went along with that and I got a ‘B.’”
“I’m glad I didn’t take that class,” said Torrance, the fellow LSU grad. “The guy’s still an asshole.”
Glenn cut in. “Now we’ll be in his next book,” he said. “He writes about his own life, you know. Just changes the names of the people and places. Instead of ‘Baby Elephant,’ you’ll be ‘Moose’ or something like that.”
“Just so I win the gold,” Torrance said with mock solemnity.
They caught the midnight bus back. That’s why you don’t drink. Much. Glenn berated himself for trying to keep pace with the boys—at least until the last round. He wasn’t drunk; he just felt light-headed and on the verge of nausea.
In the room, Glenn grabbed Of Time and the River, hoping to make it through another fifty pages. He tried to picture the huge man from the café, no longer just the man whose picture was on the book cover, at a typewriter, writing the words on the pages in front of him.
After about twenty pages, he caught himself nodding, and gave up.
As he went to bed, he told the picture on the desk: Night, Karen.
As he closed his eyes, he wondered: What did Leni do tonight?
Leni’s day was a whirlwind of going to the outlying competitive venues and rechecking her crews’ setups there, then returning to the stadium to watch and film the opening ceremonies rehearsal. Finally, she went to the Geyer Lab to look over the “rushes” to make sure the angles and lighting would be appropriate for the real thing two days later. Stephan, her editing assistant, was a marvel, usually reading her mind about what she would want to see, or being able to quickly adjust to the unpredictable.
During the viewing of the film, Leni realized she wished Glenn Morris were with her. All night. It was a yearning she hadn’t felt for over a year, at least not since Walter Prager. And it added to her attraction that she was starting to wonder if there might be a way he could aid her career, helping her broaden her appeal in America.
16
Helpless American
It was Ernst Jäger’s idea to make Leni available to reporters at the Olympic press center in downtown Berlin as the opening ceremonies neared. Jäger shepherded her through a back door into the huge room set aside for the session. Peeking through a curtain, they could tell that although the announced time for the session still was ten minutes away, the room already was jammed. “Sometimes I forget you’re a cinema star,” Jäger said. “Directors and producers never draw this many reporters.”
Jäger had told her that roughly 1,400 writers—half German, half foreign—were registered to cover the Games, and it seemed to Leni that a majority of the total had decided to show up to hear her. As she waited, she quickly skimmed the story in the morning Berliner Tageblatt that described Joseph Goebbels’s welcoming speech to the Olympic journalists. He denied that the Games involved propaganda motives for the Third Reich, but also challenged the writers to ignore the lies previously spread by others and to explore and chronicle the New Germany “as it actually is.” Leni agreed with Goebbels this time: Outside reporters, especially British and American, too often saw and heard only what fit their preconceptions. In her case, she needed them to be open-minded enough to accept her independence as a filmmaker.
Jäger began with German and English introductions and said that for the first part of the session, he would allow the Army man assigned to the press center to do the translations as needed. Leni emerged from behind the curtain and moved to the rostrum. For the next twenty minutes, she fielded unsurprising questions about the size of her crew, deployment of cameras, envisioned volume of film shot, Olympia’s likely release date, and even how she came to be connected with the project. She patiently waited through the translations, into English and, if it was requested, into French. She rattled off Leni’s Truth about Carl Diem’s pursuit of her to make the documentary, about its backing from the International Olympic Committee, and about its financing.
Then a British journalist asked, tentatively, in German: “Is this going to be another propaganda film for the Third Reich and Hitler?”
Leni wanted to give him credit for trying to speak German, but she nonetheless was perturbed. “I just told you,” Leni snapped, “this film has been commissioned by the Olympic movement powers, not by the German government. This will be about the Games, not the nation hosting them. This will be about the athletes in them, from around the world, not about the setting.”
A man introduced himself as Louis Lochner, head of the Associated Press bureau in Berlin. He spoke German.
“Yes, Mr. Lochner,” Leni said with a smile. “Nice to see you again.”
“It’s nice to say that the Olympics are above politics,” Lochner said. “But doesn’t the withdrawal of Spain’s athletes after war’s breakout there emphasize that not even the Olympics can be immune to such considerations?”
Leni replied, “I wish all athletes from all nations were here. I will film the ones who are.”
From the side of the podium, Jäger suggested that the next segment be conducted in English before they finished off with an all-German series of questions and answers.
Leni thought: Practical!
The only other woman in the room raised her hand. Expecting a sympathetic question, Leni pointed at her.
“Sigrid Schultz, Chicago Tribune,” she said. “I’m wondering how much opposition and difficulty did you encounter as a woman in making progress in the documentary film business in today’s Germany, which seems to see a woman’s role as having children?”
Even some of the other American journalists groaned.
Leni smiled wickedly. “There are many American journalists in this room,” she said. “How many are women? One. You. So I suspect I have encountered no more opposition and difficulty as a woman filmmaker than you have as a woman journalist.”
Several reporters laughed, not so much because of what Leni said, but because hard-bitten journalists always respected a quick comeback.
Joe Barnes, Berlin correspondent of the New York Herald Tribune, noticeably had to struggle to avoid laughing as he gave his name and affiliation. Then he turned serious. “Many of these athletes you mention from ‘around the world’ are Jews and Negroes. Are you committed to documenting their presence—and even their successes—as part of this film?”
Leni responded, “I will show the most compelling stories of the Games. Whatever that turns out to be, I will show. This film will be for New York and London and Paris and Tokyo as much as it is for Berlin.”
Barnes persisted. “Does Herr Hitler know that? Or Doctor Goebbels?”
Leni turned to Jäger and said in German, “Are German reporters this rude when they are in New York?”
Jäger shrugged.
Turning back, Leni said, in English, “This is, and will be, the world’s film. Ultimately, the decisions and the responsibilities are mine.”
A tall, gray-haired man in a hat spoke up. “I’m Grantland Rice, Mister Barnes’s compatriot from the New York Herald Tribune. As perhaps you know, the opening ceremonies will take place on the twenty-second anniversary of the beginning of the Great War. Are you going to attempt to pay symboli
c homage to that, and to the Games as perhaps a vehicle for international understanding?”
Leni responded, “I’m sorry, sir, my English is not that good . . . I don’t understand you.”
A young American reporter raised his hand and offered, “Don’t feel bad. A lot of us can’t understand him, either.”
That brought sympathetic laughter.
Rice was agitated. “Translate for her, please,” he said, gazing at the Army man.
The Army man did. Leni sighed deeply and said, in English, “Yes, this film will be about goodwill between nations and peoples.”
With the other reporters, the tone of the questions took a turn back toward the light and congenial, touching on her film career and her future beyond Olympia. Jäger then steered the session back to German, and Leni took a few more questions. When she was done, she drew applause from many of the journalists and stayed to sign autographs. She was amused to note that more than a few were for Americans. One was the young man who had teased Grantland Rice. He nodded toward Rice, in fact, and said, “He wants to turn everything into spectacle and everyone into gods.” He nodded at the sheet with her signature. “Thanks very much!”
As she signed more autographs, including for the Americans, she wondered how many of them had met Glenn.
This is progress, Glenn thought as he climbed into back seat of the limousine while Kurt waited, poised, to close the door. This time, in another meeting set up by a note, Kurt not only shook his hand, he smiled. There wasn’t much more conversation on the way, though. Glenn decided it was a combination of Kurt being uncomfortable speaking English; wanting to remain known for his discretion; and perhaps the habit of feeling lowly when driving around high-profile passengers. Whatever it was, Kurt wasn’t going to let down his guard.
Glenn still had only foggy knowledge about the geographic layout of Berlin, but he figured out they had gone well past the Brandenburg Gate, going east. Kurt pulled over, let him out of the car and pointed to a building on the north side of the Unter den Linden. To Glenn, it looked like something that should be in Athens or Rome.
“Fraulein Riefenstahl will meet you in front,” Kurt pronounced. “She should be here very soon.”
Glenn angled his walk to be far enough away from the front of the building to take it all in. He was marveling at the portico and its six stone columns when he caught her approaching out of the corner of his eye and turned. Striding toward him purposefully, she wore a large, floppy hat and a baggy coat.
“Excuse me,” Glenn called out as she approached, “can you help a helpless American visitor?”
She stopped about five feet short. “Yes, I believe I can,” she said.
She opened her arms and waited for him. The hug, the sort with shoulders pivoting and memories summoned, wouldn’t have struck anyone viewing it as passionate, and didn’t draw the attention of many passers-by on the Unter den Linden. It was the hug of new lovers who were learning to be affectionate with each other. Glenn was shocked at how good it—a hug, just a hug—felt.
As they looked in each other’s eyes, Leni said, “That was very nice. Is there anything else I can do for you, helpless American visitor?”
When they kissed, longer and more passionately than the embrace, Leni’s hat fell off.
Now heads were turning. Leni long ago had become accustomed to the looks: “Say, isn’t that . . . ?”
Holding Glenn’s hand, Leni pulled him over to the hat. She picked it up and started to return it to her head with the one hand, but stopped. She said something in German—Glenn’s uneducated guess was, “The hell with it”—and tossed it aside.
Then she led him toward the building. A few feet short, she stopped them. Her look at the building led Glenn to take another look. “Did Kurt tell you what this is?” she asked.
Glenn said no.
Leni sighed. “It was the guardhouse for the Crown Prince’s home. It was not in good condition a few years ago, and it was rebuilt as a memorial to the men killed in the Great War.”
“We have these, too,” Glenn said. He thought of the famous “Spirit of the American Doughboy” statue in Colorado Springs he had seen on a trip for a track meet.
Outside, Leni pointed to the sculpture works in the pediment above the columns. “That’s Nike, the Goddess of Victory, presiding over a battle,” she explained.
Glenn thought: I guess it didn’t work in the Great War.
Wondering what Glenn was thinking, she quickly added: “It was supposed to honor the Wars of Liberation . . . what others, I believe, call the Napoleonic Wars.”
Leni led him past the columns, across the portico, through the doors. A circular skylight produced eerie light in the front room.
“This is where we reflect,” Leni whispered. She turned to him. “In the Great War, your nation had many dead. My nation had many dead.” She looked into Glenn’s eyes. “We can never let it happen again.”
“Agreed,” said Glenn. “But I hope Hitler believes that, too.”
After a couple of minutes of reflection, Leni led Glenn back to the portico. Her answer came as if the conversation hadn’t been interrupted.
“I have told Hitler and his men that, Glenn,” she said. “In my own way, I have. Sometimes we all forget that he was in the war himself. Right or wrong, he believes that he needs to posture and bluster and move short of war to give his nation the negotiating power we didn’t have at Versailles. That’s all.”
She looked around. Confident she couldn’t be overheard, she confided: “Half of Berlin knows that our troops would have turned around and come home the second there was any sign of reaction from France—or anyone else—when our troops marched into the Rhineland. How nobody else seemed to realize that is amazing to me.”
Glenn shook his head. “Leni, I’m no expert in international affairs, but I think it’s that nobody thinks the Rhineland was worth risking a war again—even a minor one. And if you’re right, you’re saying Hitler will stop there, anyway, right?”
Leni shrugged.
Glenn asked, “So why’d you bring me here?”
“Because, it will take Americans and English and French and Germans working together to make sure this”—she gestured at the memorial—“doesn’t happen again. I don’t want my brother fighting. I don’t want you fighting. I don’t want anyone fighting. And an Olympics film that shows all nations competing in an atmosphere of goodwill can help.” She smiled. “And if a very handsome American is one of the heroes of the Games and the film, that is even better.”
“Sounds good to me,” Glenn declared.
They walked to a little café two blocks from the Memorial. The only sign was more of a tiny notice than an attention-getter. All is said was: “Café.” There were three tables, and Leni and Glenn were the only customers. The proprietors, a fat man and his rail-thin wife, knew Leni and welcomed her. She introduced him in German—Glenn caught his first name and noted the omission of his last—and the couple nodded cordially.
Glenn noticed the woman went to the door and locked it from the inside. There would be no other patrons.
“What did you tell them?” Glenn asked.
“You are Glenn, a helpless American visitor. They know not to ask more.” She laughed. “They also are savvy enough, so at some point during the Games when they see the newspaper and listen to the radio, they will say, ‘Say, isn’t that the man with Fraulein Riefenstahl?’ Don’t worry, though, as at the Café Halder, I have long ago figured out whom I can trust and whom I cannot. And there are fewer prying eyes here.”
Glenn smiled. “I take it I don’t get to see a menu here, either?”
“The horsemeat here is delicious.” For an instant, she had him. Then she laughed and added, “There is no menu. There is only what they feel like making.”
The vegetable soup with cabbage and the meatloaf were terrific.
As they were about to leave, Leni excused herself for a trip to the bathroom. Glenn was standing near the door when the wife appro
ached him with a newspaper and a pen. It was the page with his picture on it from the recent Berliner Tageblatt.
Please sign, she pantomimed with the pen. Glenn obliged. He didn’t mention it to Leni.
As they walked back to the cars, Leni seemed sheepish about needing to return to the Castle Ruhwald. “A crew and I are going to the gymnastics stadium,” she said. “I can’t miss it. I can’t demand devotion from my people and not give it myself. I hope you understand.”
He did understand. He understood this had been her way of showing there was more to this than sex.
At the Dietrich Eckert Stadium, the site of the gymnastics, she and her small crew, with Werner Hundhausen assigned as the lead photographer, went over the shooting angles for the various events. They knew that two Germans, Alfred Schwarzmann and Konrad Frey, were among the favorites, which might lead to some opportunities for highlighting home-nation triumphs in the finished film.
Leni trusted Hundhausen—both his skill and his judgment. So she was comfortable musing out loud as they walked from area to area.
“One of our challenges is going to be showing enough of the Führer and the German victories to satisfy Goebbels, but to preserve the film as an international work,” Leni told the cameraman. “But if those boys”—Leni couldn’t resist calling the slight, compact gymnasts boys—“do as well as they should, we can show them without being accused of overt nationalism. They will be gold medal winners.”
“I’ll make sure to get their interaction with the other competitors,” Hundhausen said.
“Absolutely,” Leni said. “The more we show the others congratulating our competitors, and our competitors congratulating others, the more we have that can highlight our status as fine sportsmen, acting in the spirit of goodwill.”
Hundhausen laughed. “You should make a speech at the opening ceremonies! That all sounds so noble!”
