Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 (26 page)

But the sisters were already raising their arms in the National Socialist salute (from which Lou, as a foreigner, was officially exempted) as a man with a chest full of medals edged Lou and Inge along.

During the wait to shake Fraulein Riefenstahl's hand, Inge said, “Don't take it to heart if the skinny bitch looks right through you. She thinks she's the queen of the universe because she's filming the games!” Inge would have liked to be included in the film. But she hadn't been asked, from jealousy or some political reason, though it was also possible that someone just forgot.

As promised, the film director was ice, pure ice, and they moved along to Herr Goebbels, standing beside her. When Goebbels heard
auto racing,
his face stiffened, and he absentmindedly, though it wasn't absentminded at all, rested his hand on Fraulein Riefenstahl's bony behind. Before Lou could think of a subtle way to call this to Inge's attention, she spotted the Führer at the end of the line.

She leaned against Inge for support, but Inge was already trembling. Her tremors were so contagious that Lou almost lost her footing and silently thanked Fraulein Schiller and the Japanese monk for her balance training.

Could some German scientist have found a way to install a high-wattage lightbulb inside the Führer's head? He emitted ten times the radiance of a normal human being, and his eyes were a hundred times brighter than the cloudy lenses through which ordinary humans peered. Lou had never seen a man exude such simple modesty combined with such charisma. He was like a temple idol! How strange that his guests were shaking his hand or saluting him instead of doing the logical thing: flinging themselves at his feet. The air around Lou seemed to thicken. A grainy nausea rose into her throat.

The Führer took Inge's hand and kissed it, then did the same to Lou. Everyone was watching. Even those still waiting outside the door craned for a better look. Lou had driven a race car at a hundred miles an hour. But standing before the Führer as he kissed her hand was like driving faster, around a curve, in a typhoon.

She looked down. She and Inge were holding hands like schoolgirls, like siblings in a fairy tale.

“Fraulein Wallser,” the Führer said. “And Fraulein Villars.” Then something else in German. Lou glanced at Inge, whose face was red, her breathing shallow.

“What did he say?” Lou asked, more sharply than she meant to.

“He says he is looking forward to chatting with you at dinner.”

The Führer studied each of them, staring into their eyes. Then he turned to a man in a top hat and tails who came up behind them.

Chatting with her at dinner?
Had Inge translated right?

Inge looked as shocked as Lou. Because it made no sense. The guest list included champion athletes, ambassadors, Olympics committee members, artists, party officials, European royalty. The Führer was looking forward to talking to
two girl racers
?

“Don't ask me,” said Inge. “Sometimes the Führer does something apparently for no reason. Later it turns out to be the most brilliant, inspired thing that anyone could have done. That's why he's a great leader. Everybody knows that.”

Weak with excitement and nerves, Inge and Lou helped each other through a doorway into another, larger room. Near the door stood men with crystal goblets of wine. Lou took one, but Inge shook her head, and Lou gave it back.

Inge said, “Whatever you do, don't get the Führer started on drinking. Not unless you want to spend the evening hearing that beer is the hereditary enemy of the German people, right up there with the Jews. If we didn't need the export income, he would close all the breweries tomorrow. No one drinks when he's around. Later we all get smashed.” Lou loved it when Inge assumed she could speak freely about the Führer because she knew that Lou adored and revered him as much as she did.

By now they had worked their way among the knots of partygoers who made room for the “It Girl” and her French friend, knots that unraveled because the guests had seen the Führer kissing the women's hands. Lou nodded when she was supposed to, smiled when she was supposed to. The Führer was looking forward to chatting with them at dinner.

Not until they went into the dining room, and Inge found their place cards flanking the Führer's, did Lou and Inge believe it.

“It still might not happen,” warned Inge. “He often changes his mind at the last minute, for security reasons, just as he changes the route he takes from his home to the airport. . . .”

The guests sat down, but when the Führer came in, everyone rose, most with outstretched arms, Lou among them. It felt good to do what the Germans did, saluting the Führer as he deserved. How else could she show him that she believed in him too? A bodyguard pulled out Inge's chair, another pulled out Lou's. It was awkward, but after lifting their behinds several times, they were settled on either side of the Führer. It was also clumsy when the Führer spoke to Lou, and Inge had to lean around him to translate. But ultimately it had the effect of bringing them closer together.

The Führer went on for so long that Inge seemed anxious that she would forget what he'd said.

Inge explained she'd told a friend that Lou had remarked that entering Berlin was like driving into the heart of a great empire. Her gossipy friend had told someone, who told the Führer, who liked what Lou said very much. He says that it is exactly how he wants our guests to feel.

“
Merci
,” said Lou. “
Danke schön.”

The Führer asked if she liked the hotel. Lou nodded. The Führer seemed pleased and said something about Herr Hess.

Inge said, “The Führer used to love the linzer torte at the Kaiserhof, but Hess has forbidden it because the cook is a Communist. Hess thinks he might poison the Führer.” The Führer added something that included “Fraulein Villars,” then laughed.

Inge said, “He says you can eat all the cake you want, Fraulein Villars. You seem like a good soul who might be very fond of cake.” Inge laughed. Lou laughed. She should have lost twenty more pounds. The Führer laughed again. Laughing together set them apart. It was the sort of laughter that would have made the other guests envious, even if Lou and Inge weren't laughing with the Führer.

The Führer said he was glad Lou liked Berlin. In his opinion (he smiled) Berlin was the only city since Imperial Rome that could call itself a city. He had been to Paris. A pitiful Alpine village.

This was tricky for Inge to translate. Paris was Lou's home. And everyone knew that the Führer had a lifelong love for Paris.

Lou was being tested. Inge and the Führer wanted to see if she could take a joke.

Lou laughed. No hard feelings! The heavy mood lightened again.

A waiter approached with bottles of wine. Inge shot Lou a warning look, but the Führer, master of surprises, motioned for Lou's goblet to be filled with red wine. How thoughtful! How could Lou ever thank him for letting her have a glassful of help with the social demands of the evening.

Lou said, “Berlin is beautiful.”

Inge said, “
Berlin ist schön
.”

More waiters interrupted them, proffering mountains of food. The waiters looked like Olympic athletes, blond, with broad shoulders and narrow waists. A tray of sliced meat bypassed the Führer, and this time, when Inge signaled Lou to say no, the Führer didn't countermand her. Lou would have loved some meat, which had been scarce in Paris, even if one could afford it. The juicy slabs of beef looked better than anything she'd seen all summer, but Lou shook her head. No, thank you. Following Inge's cue, she lifted her chin in a welcoming nod at a platter of breaded schnitzel.

“Nut cutlets,” explained the Führer.

Inge didn't,
couldn't
, translate for fear of dissolving in giggles. It thrilled Lou that she and Inge were already sharing private jokes about the Führer's diet. Inge was right to trust her. The Führer wolfed down half his cutlet and pushed his dish away. The plate was removed, along with Inge's. This allowed the Führer to talk and Inge to translate more freely, though Lou held on to her plate and, as she listened, masticated tiny mouthfuls of oily fried-sawdust croquettes.

Now the Führer spoke at length, and after some pouting and a theatrical sigh, Inge said, “The Führer says his views on nutrition are well known to me and probably even you, but still he wants to say: try a simple experiment. Put two things in front of a child—a dead animal and a pear. The child will reach for the pear. Because the child is in touch with its instincts. Now put a sausage in front of the child, who will scream and cry. What brilliant anthropologist can explain why chewed-up regurgitated flesh, stuffed into a pig's gut half-cleaned of excrement, is the most beloved delicacy of the German people?”

“I don't know,” Lou said. Inge didn't bother to translate.

The Führer seized Inge's forearm, gesturing as he spoke, as if he were a ventriloquist and Inge his pretty dummy.

The Führer said, “That is why the German people desperately need a leader. This is one of many things for which we can thank the Jews, turning herbivores into practitioners of ritual sacrifice addicted to animal flesh, all because the Jews could make a bigger profit from sausage than from salad.”

“I love salad,” Lou said.

“She loves salad,” said Inge.

Now the Führer focused on Lou, talking to her as if he could
will
her to understand German. But not even he could do that.

Afraid of disappointing him, Lou turned to Inge, who said, “In the early days of the party, when the Führer was in jail, do you know what got him through?”

“You wrote
Mein Kampf,
my Führer,” Inge went on, covering for Lou.

“Obviously,” said the Führer. Again he spoke intently. “During the day I wrote. At night I dreamed of cars. I could hear them driving past my cell window. The prison was on a curve. Cars were all I thought about. I swore that, when I got out of jail, I would get the biggest, fastest Mercedes money could buy. Which is what I have now. Though who would have predicted that by the time I got my dream car, Germany would need me so badly I couldn't risk driving it myself.”

Inge continued translating, but now Lou had the eerie sense that she was understanding German without Inge's help. The Führer motioned for Lou's glass to be refilled, a gesture that shocked Inge and two hundred other guests up and down the table.

“What did he say?” Lou asked Inge.

“Do you want to hear about his favorite thing in the world?”

Lou nodded. Certainly! The Führer's favorite thing!

Inge said, “His favorite thing is racing American cars in the middle of Berlin. Sometimes when he and his driver are alone in the Mercedes, and an American vehicle pulls up beside them, the Führer orders the driver to step on the gas—and they leave the big fat hairy American buffalo in the dust. The Führer laughs till his sides hurt. They are idiots in Detroit!”

“That's what
I
always say,” said Lou.

The Führer said, “Inge also loves cars. Like we do.” Lou felt as if she and Inge were receiving a benediction. No wonder the Führer had sat with them. Everything made sense.

Lou had something she needed Inge to tell the Führer, but her glass had refilled itself, and she forgot what she wanted to say. The Führer asked about the Olympics. Was she looking forward to the games? Wait till she saw the stadium! “Ladies, listen! When we began to plan the games in Berlin, my architects informed me there were two possibilities only. On one hand . . .”

Inge winked so only Lou saw. How joyous Lou felt, spotting the Führer's favorite phrase: another private joke.

“One possibility was a stadium costing eleven hundred thousand marks. The other was a stadium costing fourteen hundred thousand marks.” The Führer smacked the table. Lou and Inge should have seen the ministers' faces when he told them that he was allotting fourteen million marks!

“The stadium has already brought in twice that much in foreign currency, which Germany needs to rebuild. And still they complain that our stadium wasn't constructed
exactly
to Olympic specifications! Let the weaklings whine. The next Olympics will be held in Japan, but after that the games will take place every year in Berlin, and Germany will decide what Olympic proportions are.”

The Führer asked Lou something about France. Inge said, “He wants to know if France has a network of local sports associations. Like we do here.”

The Führer leaned toward Lou. Lou covered her wineglass when the waiter came round again.

Speaking slowly, Lou said there were thousands of sports clubs, all over France. There was hardly a village that didn't have its own men's and women's tennis or gymnastics, bicycle-racing, swimming, or golfing society. And Lou had friends in every one! This was an exaggeration, but only a slight one. Lou wasn't so much describing the present as making a promise about the future.

The Führer told Inge to ask what Lou knew about the early history of the party.

“Nothing, I'll bet,” said Inge.

“Not much,” admitted Lou.

The Führer said that when the party was outlawed by the parasites, cowards, and thieves who nearly destroyed the homeland, the old soldiers went underground. And the patriots who helped them were often members of sports associations, exercise clubs, gun clubs, and village teams.

The party would have succeeded without them. Destiny was on its side. But it would have been harder. And besides, it was only right. Athletics was the pure expression of the National Socialist ideal. Perfect bodies, perfect souls. Youth and strength and hope. The sacred beauty of nature uncorrupted by civilization!

Though some of his less progressive advisers argued against strenuous sports for women, the Führer believed that physical fitness would empower Aryan mothers to bear a healthy, revitalized nation. The Aryan girls' associations required its members to schedule, during each meeting—the Führer counted on his fingers—a five-minute run, twenty-five minutes of gymnastics, forty-five minutes of track and field, and at least that much of games. Did Lou know that the older girls' groups operated under the direction of the Faith and Beauty League? Did Lou know that their nationwide Strength through Joy program had tripled the average productivity of the German worker?