a little fiction, that’s all. If it’s ever “realized” (i.e., filmed), then in any case it will be as something entirely different.

Then, real money will be involved. Then, fiction and reality will mate. Then, my piglets will become anxious and will therefore work doubly hard. Then, to play it safe (“Damn it, in a movie every image, every line of dialogue, every scene must be foolproof; it can’t be left up to one person”), we’ll start the teamwork.

Then, the startled swarm of producer-boarlets will be joined by the hefty cattle from the distribution side. Then, the reluctant cinematic legal advisers in the moneylending banks will bring along vest-pocket literati, with flat heads barbered à la Bertolt Brecht, as literary advisers

(“. . . Herr Jorguleit was very successful doing this for the radio and he will henceforth be available to Victoria . . .”).

Then, amid cigarette smoke, cigar stains, and expense-account brandy, the “project” is subjected to a collective process of intellectual predigestion:

every scene, every image, and every line of dialogue is multiply analyzed to shreds, crushed, insalivated with the psychology of the trade, and thoroughly chewed up.

Everybody adds his bit. Everybody draws on his own knowledge of reality and reality-creating fantasy to inject juices that will make the soon boneless subject ferment into a mash for consumers—so that, finally kneaded and streamlined for the public taste, it may slip through the sphincters of the take artists and lens pullers.

Fine! All I’m after is the check (even if they’ve clipped three-quarters of the amount originally agreed upon).

My name will then stand as the person responsible for a work of cinematic art entitled KITTY’S GIRLS AND THE RUSSIANS—

the story has been changed to the extent that Kitty’s girls are no longer employed in a Berlin cathouse, but are now the wards in a boarding school for aristocratic young ladies in Potsdam (“After all, highborn girls interest moviegoers more than hookers, you have to admit that yourself—something like the Empress Augusta School—right?. . .”)—

So Kitty (von?) Schmidt is no longer madame la patronne but now teaches local history in the aforesaid institute. (“Just think of GIRLS IN UNIFORM—a worldwide success, American remake, et cetera . . .”)

“Well, and then when the Russkies come, the whole thing can run along as it did before—but wait a minute, we don’t want to remind the audience of unpleasant historical events like the raping spree; my wife, for instance, she doesn’t like to think about it. Besides, we don’t want to spoil our prospects in the Eastern market right at the outset . . .”

So: the girls merely fear being raped, but a lieutenant of the advancing Russian company, Ivan So-and-so-vitch or what should we call him? Gimme a real Russian name—huh? Karamazov? No, Karamazov sounds too much like a battlefield; that’s what it’s good for, a battlefield—THE BATTLE OF KARAMAZOV. But not for us. What? Raskolnikov? I like that, Raskolnikov—you too, Herr Müller-Kapetown? You’ve heard the name already? So what. In the new version, the character’s completely positive; you don’t have to worry about issues with libel . . . Well, anyway: Lieutenant Ivan Raskolnikov has expressly told his men not to rape any woman, but the guys ignore his orders, the delirium of victory and the booze unleash their passions—