Hans was unusually silent the rest of the day. In the lodge’s parlor the next morning, as they were making ready to leave, he presented Wilhelm with his schoolboy’s copy of Faust. On the inside cover, he’d inscribed, To Murnau. Christmas, 1910. Even then, even there, out of deference to the other lodgers, they refrained from a prolonged embrace.

Verdun, 1917

VERDUN, 1917

Four months after the war began, Murnau was called up into the First Regiment of the Foot Guards at Potsdam, perhaps because of his size. Hans had volunteered with a less elite unit the month before.

Two weeks before reporting, Hans had gone with his family on a ski vacation. Murnau had been unable to go, due to a rehearsal schedule, so he sat around the Romanische feeling neglected and sorry for himself. Even Lasker-Schüler had left Berlin, on a lecture tour.

Unable to sleep, he walked the streets. Prowling the park one night, he was reunited with Spiess, who had been in the company of a young sailor. The sailor seemed mortified by their encounter. Spiess and Murnau exchanged addresses, and Spiess again proclaimed his old friend’s change of name a great amusement. The next day, he sent round to Murnau’s house a dozen chocolate roses and a ticket to the Philharmonic.

At dinner that night Murnau felt taken up by more capable hands. It was decided that he should improve his English. The merits of different teachers were discussed. None were apparently satisfactory on the issue of pronunciation. And naturally, given the political situation, finding a young Englishman was out of the question. Every so often the entire clientele of the restaurant broke out in patriotic songs.

After dinner they returned to Spiess’s apartment near the Oranienburger Tor, tucked in the back of a Period house. The inner door shut out the noise of the war demonstrations. Spiess went around the room lighting candles while Murnau studied the familiar antique bronze screen for the fireplace and the small silver casket suspended above the bed. The landscapes with their trees and broken figures were still visible down the hall in a studio. The rooms looked much as they had seven years earlier: somewhere between ransacked and rearranged, as though Gypsies had spent the weekend.

Spiess presented some of his experiments relating to his theory of colors. The theory was new to Murnau, and stupid. Sitting in little wooden armchairs, they talked about Murnau’s most recent roles. Spiess was flatteringly detailed in his comments. About criticism in general, he claimed that through the daily reviews a sort of half-culture found its way to the masses, but to productive talent, that same criticism was a noxious mist.

They talked for four hours and in the middle of the night found themselves asleep on the same sofa.

The candles were out. Spiess began easing off Murnau’s shoes, rocking each heel gently free.