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there was something more in her face and eyes, more than mere beauty. A sadness, loss made eloquent in this silence. Wilson watched as the woman laid her fingertips against the glass. That mute, untouchable element, he knew, made her even lovelier.
     
    “Who is she?”
     
    Wise didn’t take his gaze away from the screen. “Um, Marie – no, Marte something. I’ve got it written down somewhere. There weren’t any credits on this print, so I had to send a cable to find out.”
     
    The name meant nothing to Wilson. There were plenty of beautiful women, in movies made here and all over Europe. This one might be special; he had no way of knowing.
     
    He glanced over at Wise. The film producer, the owner of the studio, gazed raptly at the screen, his eyes caught in this waking dream. The shifting light played over Wise’s face, as though he had become part of that other, more real world.
     
    Don’t  – Wilson stopped himself from reaching out and touching Wise’s arm. Don’t; it’s not true, it’s just a movie. You don’t know who she really is  –
     
    But he could see that it was already too late. He watched the other man, watching the image on the screen, a face of loveliness and sadness, light and shadow.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    BERLIN
     
    1939
     
     
     
       The glories of our blood and state
     
       Are shadows, not substantial things;
     
       There is no armour against fate,
     
       Death lays his icy hand on kings . . .
     
     
          – James Shirley (1596 - 1666), Dirge, from
     
              The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses
     

 
     
     
     
    NINE
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    “ Herr Reichsminister  –” The functionary, a little man with sleek-polished hair, made a bow. “This is one of our honored guests tonight. Herr David Wise – from America.”
     
    With a champagne glass cradled in her hand, Marte watched as the Reichsminister für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda nodded in greeting. She stood close to him, closer now than she would have if the Reichminister ’s wife were still at the reception. But after giving Marte a hard, knowing gaze, Frau Goebbels had given her apologies and gone home to look after their brood of golden-haired children. Which allowed her husband the freedom to drape his arm around Marte’s shoulders – left bare by the ballgown that the studio’s costume department had given her – and shepherd her through Berlin’s political and cinematic elite.
     
    “It is, of course, a pleasure to meet you, Herr Wise.” Joseph spoke in the low, courtly voice with which she had already become familiar. “I assure you that I know very well the films of the Wise Studios. Excellent work. You must be proud to have been the producer of such . . . how to say? . . . such visual epics.”
     
    The American shrugged off the compliment. “We try our best.” He stood taller than Goebbels, with dark, curling hair and only a slight Hebraic bump to his nose. Different from what Joseph had told her about Hollywood film producers. They were all supposed to be squat, swarthy, hook-nosed lechers, with cunning, leering stares. This one looked decent enough to have appeared in his own movies, perhaps as the lead actor’s kindhearted friend, something like that.
     
    “You are a craftsman.” Joseph smiled. “There can be no higher tribute.”
     
    “I guess I’m flattered. But . . . I don’t know. Films are . . .”
     
    Marte sipped at the champagne as Herr Wise searched through his limited German vocabulary.
     
    “ Szenen ,” he said at last. “Pictures. That’s all.”
     
    “Ah, aber am Anfang war das Wort  – in the beginning was the word, Herr Wise.” Joseph’s thin-lipped smile grew wider. “Don’t you agree?”
     
    “Maybe. I didn’t expect a National Socialist to quote Scripture, though.”
     
    Joseph tilted his head back in amusement. “You do not know, Herr Wise – in my youth, I