It isn’t immediately apparent what qualifies Herr Stoffel to be a producer, although his exterior doesn’t rule it out: typical entrepreneur of the German reconstruction from the cadre of those exempted from military service for the sake of the wartime economy (son and successor of a manufacturer of wooden articles in the town of Winsenon-the-Luhe; main product: gun stocks). In his early thirties and obviously well fed even in times of scarcity, viz: plenty of lard on a six-foot-one frame, flaxen haired, theatrical, booming voice. Educational level: left high school before graduation. But sly: a shrewd eye, quick grasp of a situation, without doubt ruthless. Clearly knows next to nothing about film but can bluff with the opinions of an observant moviegoer. (“What drives me crazy is that in movies, nobody ever gets change from a cabbie” or, “Have you ever seen a man get dressed and tuck his shirt in after he’s buckled his belt?”) He owed his license to his wife Astrid von Bürger’s relationship with a film critic, an émigré who returned to Germany as cultural officer in the military government. (That good fellow, one Mr. Fletcher—formerly Fleischer—is a fan of Astrid’s “Niffelheim beauty” and stoutly defends her against the accusation that during the war, she used her fame as a movie star to at the very least aid the Nazis in their push toward a final victory.) Meanwhile, in addition to her, Stoffel had the trump card of a million reichsmarks in hand (God only knows how he got them), not to mention his excellent connections to self-supporting Holstein farmers eager to trade their surplus ham and butter for Scotch whiskey. Thus he was able to found STELLA FILMS even before the currency reform, after which banks with large D-mark reserves swarmed onto the risky investment like flies onto dog shit.

Nagel is well aware of all that and appropriately repelled intellectually and morally, but not strongly enough to forgo his chance to write for the movies—to say nothing of spending a few hours each day in the presence of Astrid von Bürger. He’ll have to do penance for it, however. She takes a lively part in all script conferences and voices very strong opinions. But even if they aren’t always in artistic agreement, good old Nagel at least has the good fortune to sit down together in a cordial, collegial atmosphere with one of the masturbatory pinups of his infantryman’s days in flesh and blood and skin and hair and come-hither looks, with a good view of her cleavage and sometimes, when she casually crosses her legs, even up her skirt.

She greets me graciously. She’s undeniably beautiful, with a magnificent body, dark haired (Brünhilde’s mane), her voice a bit metallic, but ringing. She knows how to modulate it and is one of those German women who seek to establish with each person they meet a secret affinity between allied souls, a sort of elective affinity at first acquaintance that doesn’t exclude others but gives the person toward whom it’s directed the illusion of being singled out. Stoffel does something similar. He obviously doesn’t know what to do with me at first and is on his guard, but nevertheless turns to me with an occasional remark about the others present (including Nagel), as if there already existed a more intense relationship between him and me. It is just the feeling I’m receiving inappropriate attention that makes the exchange uncomfortable. (I don’t know how Nagel couched the suggestion that I be invited; what’s more, I’m embarrassed by the whiff of homoeroticism lurking in every meeting between two German men.) What unsettles me even more is that his spinning abstract threads of a relationship between him and me is a continual, potential betrayal of all the others (and likewise, between him and them, of me). The atmosphere is thick with treachery, the relationships slippery.