operations.
Two assistants preceded her and occasionally motioned for her to come take a closer look. Lilo guessed that there were more than 250 prisoners lined up. But she wondered what these three people were doing — the lady in the slacks with her briefcase and the two men not in uniform. She leaned around the woman who stood next to her and called to Django, who was standing next to another Roma boy, just a child really.
“Django, what is it?”
“Casting call.” His dark eyes sparkled. She saw him bend down and whisper something to the small boy. The boy stood up straighter and squared his shoulders.
“What?” She had never heard these words. “What are you talking about?”
“The movies.”
“Like Hollywood?” She saw the beautiful lady raise her hand to her face and close her thumb and forefinger to make an O . “What’s she doing with her fingers?”
“Framing us — like in a camera lens,” Django replied. “So look sharp, Lilo. Here she comes.”
Lilo felt her mother slip down toward the mud. “I can’t do it. I’m losing too much blood.”
“You can, Mama! You can.” Lilo gave her mother a sharp poke. She felt her mother gasp and straighten up. It was just in time. The woman was a few yards away, picking her way through the mud in her beautiful alligator boots. She carried a small notebook and sometimes paused to write something down.
“What do you think she is writing in the notebook, Django?”
“Oh, that you are pretty and perfect for a part.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Okay, that I am so handsome that I should play the lead.”
“Yeah, you’re a regular Clark Gable!” Lilo said.
The woman was walking more quickly down the line of prisoners. The face in the poster, the face of Leni Riefenstahl, was inches from her own.
“This one, Hugo. This girl.” Then she again held her hand to her eye and closed her thumb and forefinger, and swung the “lens” directly at Lilo. She looked back at the woman through the O formed by her fingers. The eye glimmered darkly. Lilo would never forget that eye. Lilo found that she seemed in some uncanny way to know exactly what to do. She tilted her head saucily and pressed her mother closer, her head resting lightly against her mother’s. Then she smiled so that her dimple flashed.
“Ah!
Liebling.
” Riefenstahl turned to the man called Hugo. “This one is charming.”
“And my mother, too,” Lilo said softly.
“Yes, clean them up.
Mein Gott.
I see lice crawling out from her hair.” She continued down the line. “And this one and this.” She pointed at Django and the little boy next to him. Lilo felt a sweep of relief that Django had been chosen. She saw him run his hands through the stubble of hair on the child’s head. The gesture was so unimaginably tender that she nearly gasped aloud.
The next day, twenty-three of the Maxglan prisoners, including a three-month-old infant and its mother, were loaded onto two trucks. As the trucks rolled out of the camp, Bluma Friwald grasped Lilo’s hand and shut her eyes tight.
“Mama, what are you doing?”
“I won’t believe it until we turn.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Turn right, we head east. Turn left, west.”
A few seconds later, she felt her mother slide against her. “Mama, it’s . . .” But her voice was drowned out as a roar went up from the two trucks.
“Next stop Hollywood!” Django yelled.
“Hollywood!” cried the little boy who was sitting next to him, and he punched the air with his stick-thin arm. They had turned left.
Not Hollywood, but the village of Krün, nestled at the foot of the Karwendel range of the Bavarian Alps.
West, but not as far west as California,
Lilo thought.
They were heading to the village that had been built for the set of the movie. The prisoners were told that Leni Riefenstahl, Hitler’s favorite director, was making a movie called
Tiefland.
It was to be Leni Riefenstahl’s first time directing a
Two assistants preceded her and occasionally motioned for her to come take a closer look. Lilo guessed that there were more than 250 prisoners lined up. But she wondered what these three people were doing — the lady in the slacks with her briefcase and the two men not in uniform. She leaned around the woman who stood next to her and called to Django, who was standing next to another Roma boy, just a child really.
“Django, what is it?”
“Casting call.” His dark eyes sparkled. She saw him bend down and whisper something to the small boy. The boy stood up straighter and squared his shoulders.
“What?” She had never heard these words. “What are you talking about?”
“The movies.”
“Like Hollywood?” She saw the beautiful lady raise her hand to her face and close her thumb and forefinger to make an O . “What’s she doing with her fingers?”
“Framing us — like in a camera lens,” Django replied. “So look sharp, Lilo. Here she comes.”
Lilo felt her mother slip down toward the mud. “I can’t do it. I’m losing too much blood.”
“You can, Mama! You can.” Lilo gave her mother a sharp poke. She felt her mother gasp and straighten up. It was just in time. The woman was a few yards away, picking her way through the mud in her beautiful alligator boots. She carried a small notebook and sometimes paused to write something down.
“What do you think she is writing in the notebook, Django?”
“Oh, that you are pretty and perfect for a part.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Okay, that I am so handsome that I should play the lead.”
“Yeah, you’re a regular Clark Gable!” Lilo said.
The woman was walking more quickly down the line of prisoners. The face in the poster, the face of Leni Riefenstahl, was inches from her own.
“This one, Hugo. This girl.” Then she again held her hand to her eye and closed her thumb and forefinger, and swung the “lens” directly at Lilo. She looked back at the woman through the O formed by her fingers. The eye glimmered darkly. Lilo would never forget that eye. Lilo found that she seemed in some uncanny way to know exactly what to do. She tilted her head saucily and pressed her mother closer, her head resting lightly against her mother’s. Then she smiled so that her dimple flashed.
“Ah!
Liebling.
” Riefenstahl turned to the man called Hugo. “This one is charming.”
“And my mother, too,” Lilo said softly.
“Yes, clean them up.
Mein Gott.
I see lice crawling out from her hair.” She continued down the line. “And this one and this.” She pointed at Django and the little boy next to him. Lilo felt a sweep of relief that Django had been chosen. She saw him run his hands through the stubble of hair on the child’s head. The gesture was so unimaginably tender that she nearly gasped aloud.
The next day, twenty-three of the Maxglan prisoners, including a three-month-old infant and its mother, were loaded onto two trucks. As the trucks rolled out of the camp, Bluma Friwald grasped Lilo’s hand and shut her eyes tight.
“Mama, what are you doing?”
“I won’t believe it until we turn.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Turn right, we head east. Turn left, west.”
A few seconds later, she felt her mother slide against her. “Mama, it’s . . .” But her voice was drowned out as a roar went up from the two trucks.
“Next stop Hollywood!” Django yelled.
“Hollywood!” cried the little boy who was sitting next to him, and he punched the air with his stick-thin arm. They had turned left.
Not Hollywood, but the village of Krün, nestled at the foot of the Karwendel range of the Bavarian Alps.
West, but not as far west as California,
Lilo thought.
They were heading to the village that had been built for the set of the movie. The prisoners were told that Leni Riefenstahl, Hitler’s favorite director, was making a movie called
Tiefland.
It was to be Leni Riefenstahl’s first time directing a
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