Chapter Thirty-Seven

MICHAEL MüLLER IS constantly barking orders on set. “Own it, damn you!” he shouts at me. “You are not believable! Leni Riefenstahl was not just a director, an actress, a photographer. She possessed the inner strength of ten men. Look at that mountain ahead.” He points at the fake mountain scenery behind us. “She alone turned mountains into a movie genre. Command. Show it in your eyes and do it now!”

He then jumps in front of Stan, practically pushes him out of the way. “Move!”

My mouth drops open. If anyone else ever did that to Stan, there would be hell to pay. I glare at Müller and don’t bother to hide my contempt. He does this Bina Blonski taunting routine at least twice an hour during filming to belittle me in front of the cast and crew—his people. The public mocking at my expense is received with a burst of giggles. Nazis have always worked in packs.

I let Müller believe that he’s got me where he wants me. Reduced. I allow him to think that everything is going exactly as planned on “his” movie set. And to the onlooker, it appears that way: Stan Moss is directing but taking orders from him, Lena Browning is the leading lady who Müller bosses around mercilessly, the film crew is in his domain, and the studio honchos are surprisingly on board, having been hoodwinked by Stan (who pitched them a slightly different script that he wrote himself and managed to push through). Stan also brilliantly outsmarted the studio execs by insisting that for “authenticity purposes” he would film off-site in Germantown, Pennsylvania, which all but ensured that the studio’s spies would stay off the set. No one leaves Los Angeles for Pennsylvania. This location initiative also pleased Müller, given that Germantown, six miles outside of Philadelphia, is one of the most historic German neighborhoods in the United States.

Bolstered by his newfound power trip, Müller drives around in a customized golf cart wearing black Ray-Bans and a ridiculous belted leather trench coat reminiscent of Third Reich fashion. His trendy Nazi chic is not meant for us, I explained to Stan, it’s for them, his followers. The coat is symbolic. The Nazis believed it represented virility, strength, power, and prestige. They issued that same leather trench to all S.S. officers who ranked Hauptsturmführer—captain or higher. Müller even dropped his meticulously cultivated American accent and spoke only in German on set, except to Stan and me. A führer in the making, right before our eyes.

I also insisted that Stan play the part of subservient Jew. It gives Müller a hard-on, I told him. Don’t look him in the eye. That’s key, Stan. Stare at your shoes when he speaks to you. That’s what he wants, the dominance, the control. It won’t be long, I promise. I feign total confidence. The piece I haven’t yet revealed to Stan is that I still don’t have a solid plan. I need to find my hook, the chink in Müller’s armor, before I make my move. Always have insurance—straight out of the Nazis’ own playbook.

And then, miraculously, two weeks to the day after we started shooting Goddess in Germantown, my opportunity arrived.

I WAS INthe bathroom, saddled in the farthest stall from the door at a local hamburger joint. I had gone for a long walk after an intense day of shooting and needed to clear my head from portraying the Nazi filmmaker who saw “beauty in destruction.” I popped into the local restaurant to pick up takeout to bring back to my hotel, and made a brief stop in the ladies’ room while I was waiting for my order, when I heard voices that I vaguely recognized enter the bathroom. I immediately curled up my legs onto the seat and listened.

“That girl never shuts up,” one woman said.

“You must have something in Wardrobe to muzzle her.”

Both women broke out in laughter, and I realized who they were. One was Agnes, Müller’s head of Wardrobe, a middle-aged plant straight from Berlin. The other, Monika, Müller’s personal assistant, a svelte twenty-five-year-old with a long blond braid roping down her back like Rapunzel. Her parents apparently came to Los Angeles from Germany before the war. She dressed like a sexy schoolgirl in her daily uniform—a short plaid skirt, starched white blouse, sturdy black heels, and a clipboard permanently tucked under her arm.

They used the two stalls adjacent to mine. I held my breath and exhaled only during the flush. “Forget about her. I have something more pressing to discuss,” Monika told Agnes as they washed their hands. “I have been waiting to get you alone. Remember that estate I told you about in Pacific Palisades? Well, I was there last weekend with Michael for the first time during the break. Agnes, you would melt over the sheer size of it,” she gushed. “Twenty bedrooms, horse stables, and even on-site coaches teaching marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat. It was everything I dreamt it would be—a magnificent, self-sustaining compound.”

“I heard whispers about it and wondered if it really existed,” Agnes said in a low voice.

“Yes, it’s a top secret location, for obvious reasons. Only VIPs are invited there. Michael calls it ‘Hitler’s West Coast White House’—Das Haus for short. Apparently, it’s where they hold high-level meetings. Just recently I heard, and I shouldn’t mention names but...”

“It’s in the vault,” Agnes begged. “Tell me.”

“Well, the architect of the V-2 rockets back in Germany paid a visit recently.” Monika’s voice became quieter. “You know who he is. The man is spearheading NASA’s rocket engineering program. It’s also where... Can you keep a secret? Michael is building a major movie studio. I’m telling you, Agnes, Das Haus is where the real power lies. And that’s not all that lies there.” She giggled.

Das Haus. I made a mental note to check it out when I get back to LA, and clearly, Monika was more than Müller’s assistant. Monika was now the one to watch closely.

“Here, Mika, use this,” Agnes said sweetly, calling Monika by the nickname that I’ve heard Müller use on occasion. She turned off the faucet. “Try this red shade instead of that one. It will look good on you. It’s by L’Oréal. I notice you’ve been using Max Factor. It’s garbage. Dump it.” Agnes didn’t need to explain her contempt. The meaning was clear to all parties in the bathroom. The founder of Max Factor was a Jew. “L’Oréal’s founder, Eugène Schueller, was a friend during the war. And we never forget our friends, and we certainly don’t support our enemies.”

I heard something hard drop to the floor and bounce.

“Good to know. I won’t use that brand again,” Monika said, then cleared her throat. “Michael and I are planning a special event for Christmas at Das Haus. An exclusive party, and I need your help. It’s going to be elegant—a throwback to the old days. Gowns and uniforms, with, get this, a special reenactment ceremony on Christmas morning. So Michael suggested that I talk to you about borrowing—”

“Uniforms from Goddess!” Agnes exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Absolutely brilliant. Tell him yes! We have an entire battalion in Props that he can use.”

“Yes, uniforms. And of course, you must come,” Monika added. “Michael was very specific. We need four general uniforms and at least twenty privates—representing Hitler’s birthday—four twenty. You know how crazy Michael is about numbers and symbols. The reenactment ceremony is for prestigious members of the organization. Though we do need more women in attendance.” She lowered her voice. “I was thinking of asking Connie to join us. I have been recruiting her.”

There was a long pause. “Really? Connie, her assistant?”

My Connie?My heart dropped.

“Yes,” Monika responded as if she heard me. “She’s been glomming on to me, and it’s clear she has a crush on Paul Schweiger.”

“Who doesn’t?” Agnes chuckled. “If only I were ten years younger.”

“He’s dreamy, I agree. And Connie is smitten. She told me just that, confidentially. I feel sorry for her, the way that woman orders her around.”

That woman. Me.

“How much does Connie really know about us?”

“Not enough. But she’s learning and very curious. And Paul is on board. He knows what he needs to do to make Connie feel special.”

Connie. My trusted assistant for the past five years. Thirty years old. Reserved, kind, smart, trustworthy, resourceful Connie was testing the Nazi waters. Always watch the quiet ones, my mother used to say.

“She could be very useful,” Monika said, and then I heard the snap of her purse shutting. I felt the lump growing in my throat. Connie was no match for these calculating women.

“I like how you think,” Agnes responded, and they both exited the bathroom.

I waited an extra fifteen minutes in the stall after they left, just to be sure. I stretched my legs, exited the stall, and spotted the discarded Max Factor gold-tubed lipstick on the floor. I quickly left the restaurant through the back entrance, forgoing my takeout order in case Agnes and Monika were still inside the main dining area.

I zipped up my coat and hid my face with my scarf and walked vigorously back to my hotel, knowing that knowledge comes with a hefty price tag. I had found the chink in the Nazi armor—and her name is Connie.