windows reflecting violet and scarlet light and to one side an entire street was decked out as the American Wild West.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’
Clara gazed around her. It was a sight that seemed to suggest endless transformations. Something about it reminded her of the exact reason she had wanted to act. For her, a performance was not something to appear in, but rather something to disappear into. Acting let you do that. It was a transcendent experience, even if, when you looked behind the sets, there was only plaster and struts propping them up.
‘They built this studio for
Metropolis
. They used thirty-six thousand extras, can you believe, and a cool six million marks. The most expensive film ever made. It’s called the Marlene Dietrich Halle.’ Helga winked. ‘Only since she left I don’t think it’s called
that
any more.’
The place seemed astonishingly busy. There was hammering and drilling from men installing a set, and others were carrying sound equipment to fix on an immense crane. Girls with scripts scurried past, dodging prop makers and electricians. Clara stared curiously at the model of an Arabian harem, right next to the background of a windswept mountain.
‘Are they making more than one film at the same time?’
‘More than one?’ Helga burst out laughing. ‘Hundreds! People never get tired of films, do they? Luckily for us actresses. The rest of the country may be going to hell but Ufa is doing wonderfully. At least, they were until recently. Now I think Max’s office is somewhere along here.’
They climbed a flight of steps, turning into a long corridor, and came to a glass door, through which could be seen a man in shirtsleeves, bow-tie and red braces, gesticulating on the telephone. He was cadaverously thin, with tombstone teeth and hollow cheeks. It was hard to tell how old he might be. His face was as wrinkled as yesterday’s newspaper and suggested just as much worrying news.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Albert. We’re looking for Max.’
‘Who isn’t?’ he replied gloomily, raking a hand through sparse locks of hair. ‘I’m thinking of putting out a police search for him. Except it’s no doubt the police who’ve tracked him down, knowing Max. He’s probably in a cell somewhere, waiting to be bailed out.’
‘Clara, this is Albert Lindemann. Albert, this is Fräulein Clara Vine, and apparently she’s up for a part in Max’s new film.’
Albert eyed her briefly. ‘If I had fifty marks for every girl who said that I could give up this filthy job and spend my life skiing.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Helga laid a hand on Clara’s arm. ‘He’s joking. If he tried skiing he’d have a heart attack.’ To Albert she said, ‘Perhaps you could ask Max to find a part for me too, darling. I’m twenty-six now and I’m getting tired of playing the chorus.’
‘Tell him yourself,’ said Albert, cracking open a cigarette packet, lighting up and inhaling as if his life depended on it. ‘You’ve got far more to persuade him with. I haven’t the faintest idea where he is, he’s not answering his telephone and all I get is people complaining to me. What was this film he’s supposed to have scripted?’
‘Black Roses.
Lilian Harvey’s going to star.’
‘Well, if you wait for Lilian you could be waiting a long time. She may be in love with Willy Fritsch, but I bet she’ll love Hollywood more.’
‘That’s what I said,’ added Helga. ‘I’d say she’s definitely there for good. Gone the way of Marlene Dietrich and all the others.’
‘So that’s it, is it?’ said Clara, trying to keep her voice level. ‘There’s nothing else you can suggest?’
Noticing the dismay on her face, Albert said more kindly, ‘Now I didn’t say that, did I? Everyone’s on the lookout for English speakers. Why not come back tomorrow? Or Max might decide to turn up for work. You never know.’
Clara thanked him and closed the glass door behind her. She took a few steps and then