Wilhelm and his group became the celebrated lightingmasters. Hamlet opened later that year with shadowy figures high on dark battlements against a bleak North Sea sky. Macbeth the following summer opened with witches in translucent costumes backlit by a sunset so fiery that they resembled agile skeletons dancing.

Their sunsets or northern skies could fill with or be drained of light at will because Reinhardt had invented, while Wilhelm’s group had watched and experimented and contributed whatever it could, what he called the “lighting console,” a large plywood board of interconnected and labeled switches which the operator could play like a musical instrument, bringing up light in the east even as he faded stars in the west.

Visiting Berlin, one of his brother’s friends saw Wilhelm in a small role in Hamlet. He was using an anagrammatic stage name but was recognized because of his height and his hair, which he’d left red for the part.

His father sent a three-line postcard. Nothing. Not another pfennig. I paid for you to become a professor, not a starving actor. The cheques stopped.

After Murnau had written a number of letters, Frau Plumpe worked out a solution. Her father would continue the support. Her husband would never find out.

Wilhelm’s brother eventually wrote that every so often their father would ask how he was managing up in Berlin, and their mother would assume a prim and displeased expression and say only “He’s managing.”

Once he got what he wanted, he wrote less and less. His mother’s letters became more plaintive, and despite her pain, his remained unapologetic, and rare.

About that time, they made their acquaintance of the famous Lasker-Schüler by attending one of her poetry readings. Wilhelm invited Veidt along but Veidt said he’d had enough histrionics for the day. Hans was sulky when he heard, and Wilhelm let him sulk.

When they arrived at the Romanische Café, Lasker-Schüler was seated by herself near the door of the ladies’ room. Her eyes were closed, her fingertips held to her temples. She was small, with short hair. Her velvet jacket was the same brilliant red as her lips, and despite the season she wore wide Turkish pants and a Tartar’s fur cap. She’d painted a golden arrow down her throat. The arrowhead echoed the vee of her buttoned blouse.

Hans pointed out a small boy sitting Indian-style on the floor, playing with a wooden glider. Waiters stepped over him.

Veidt had identified Paul, her son by her second husband.

Hans went over to him. Wilhelm kept his seat.

The boy looked asthmatic and pale and miserable in the smoke. He lifted the glider for Hans’s inspection.

The master of ceremonies ascended the steps and banged the podium with the heel of his hand. Hans returned to his chair. Lasker-Schüler surfaced from her meditation and stepped onto the platform while the introduction was still proceeding.