Footnote 2 Film Notes Her Real Glory (p.82)


*Press-book from Tobis-Berlin Studios, for their international distributors of Tobis-Berlin releases, regarding the superproduction entitled Her Real Glory (middle pages):


The unexpected arrival of the foreign vedette had not been announced with the usual fanfare; on the contrary, it was decided for Leni Lamaison to arrive incognito at the capital city of the Reich. Only after makeup and wardrobe tests were the press summoned. The foremost diva of French song was to be introduced, that afternoon, finally, to prominent representatives of the free press, there at Berlin's Grand Hotel. Soft echoings of the orchestra in the tea garden reached the Imperial Room, located on the mezzanine floor and reserved for the occasion. Leni had already been identified with the latest rages in Parisian fashion, her beauty having so often served to embody the same. Everyone therefore expected to see a mechanical doll adorned with the tightest of permanent waves, her two cheekbones heavily rouged over a foundation of white lacquer. It was likewise taken for granted that she would scarcely be able to keep her eyes open, given the thick layering of black mascara and the imposing set of false eyelashes. But the greatest curiosity was centered on her attire, inasmuch as it could be assumed to include, inevitably, the useless profusion of draperies dictated by the decadent couturiers of the Ultra-Rhine, aspiring as they do to a distortion of the female figure.


But when one eventually caught the sudden murmurings of profound admiration voiced among the gathering, it was an altogether different woman who in fact emerged among all those who now so rapidly made way for her. No, her tiny waist and rounded hips were not buried beneath any sort of superfluous trappings, her firm bust was not flattened by some extravagant design: on the contrary the girl right out of Sparta, one might well have imagined-stepped forth girded in the simplest sort of white tunic which amply expressed the perfect fullness of her figure, and the bright, clean face could have belonged to a healthy shepherdess. Her hair, in turn, was parted in the middle and fixed into a long braid completely encircling the crown of her erect head. And the gymnast's arms were unencumbered by sleeves, just a short cape of the same white fabric to cover her shoulders. "Our ideal of beauty must forever be one of healthy fitness," so our Leader has stated, and more specifically as applied to women, "Her single mission is to be beautiful and bear the sons of the world. A woman who bequeaths five sons to the Volk has made a greater contribution than that of the finest woman jurist in the world. Because there is no place for women in politics within the ideological context of National Socialism, inasmuch as to drag women into the parliamentary sphere, where they pale, is to rob them of their dignity.


The German renaissance is a masculine undertaking, but the Third Reich, which presently numbers upwards of 80 million subjects, within a century -in the glorious year of 2040-will have need of 250 million patriots to govern the destinies of the entire world, from the Fatherland itself and from our countless colonies. And that will be a feminine undertaking, after having learned the lesson of so many other peoples, concerning the grave problem of racial degeneration, which can and will be halted by means of concerted nationalism on the part of the populace itself, synthesis of State and People." These same words are repeated to the lovely foreigner, there in the so-called Imperial Room, by the representative of the Berlin studios words which make a lasting impression upon Leni, just as her pure beauty makes its own impression upon the many members of the international press gathered together there.


The following day, her new image adorns the front pages of all the newspapers of the free world, but Leni wastes no time reading hymns of praise to her loveliness; instead, she picks up the telephone and overcoming her strong mistrust--calls up Werner. She asks him if, during those few days he plans to spend in the capital before returning to Paris, he would perhaps help her to discover some of the marvels of the new German world. Werner begins by driving her to a gigantic assembly of German youth, taking place in an enormous stadium. However, he prefers to disregard the usual amenities of an official limousine, and instead to take Leni there in his dashing white coupe; his intention being that she might thus experience herself as only one of thousands among that zealous multitude-and what is more, he succeeds. All those who pass close by to Leni of course admire her, but not for the eccentricities of some diva precieuse, but rather because of her majestic poise, her example of healthy womanhood, undefiled by cosmetics. In short, Leni makes her appearance in a simple two-piece outfit, reminiscent of our stark military uniforms. The fabric, a typical cloth of the Alpine region, reflects something of the ruggedness of all mountain folk, but nevertheless highlights her comely feminine shape, and only the square shoulder padding departs from the contours of her lovely silhouette, and then only to strengthen them.


Werner is contemplating her ecstatically, because he has of course anticipated Leni's astonishment at the monumental facade of the stadium, and in fact she has not escaped its impact Leni then asks Werner why his nation proves capable of creating something so purely inspired, while in the rest of Europe an art all too frivolous and ephemeral has been imposed, as much in painting and sculpture as in architecture, a merely decorative and abstract art destined to perish as quickly as any expendable haute couture concocted in the capital of the Ultra-Rhine. He knows very well what to answer her, but chooses not to do so immediately, and asks her to wait one more instant. And now the two find themselves before the unforgettable spectacle that the flower of German youth offers them: across the green field spread rows of straight lines which then dissolve and suddenly recompose, to give way to curves which undulate momentarily and in their turn reassert the virility of rectilinear composition. These are the young gymnasts of both sexes, dressed in black and white for their gymnastic exhibition. And then Werner says, as if to comment upon this truly olympic vision at which Leni cannot help but stare in awe: "Yes, heroism emerges as the only future model for all political destinies, and it is up to art to lend expression to this, the spirit of our age. Communist futuristic art is retrograde, anarchical. Ours is Nordic culture in opposition to the foolhardiness of just so many Mongolian communists, and to the Catholic farce, a product of Assyrian corruption.


Love must be replaced by Honor. And Christ will become the Athlete who with a proud fist forcibly ejects the merchants from the Temple." And as if to echo his very words the youth veritable torch of National Socialism-now together intone their martial chorale, vibrant with patriotism: ". . . wave on high, 0 majestic banner of yore, the young revolutionary must spew forth volcanic passions, incite all wrath, directing all suspicion and righteous anger with a cold and steady hand, and thus do we enlist the mass of humanity," paraphrasing the motto of our Supreme Commandant for Propaganda, Field Marshal Goebbels. And Leni, in spite of the conflict which her mind has fed upon since that day when she heard Werner pronounce the death sentence, she feels suddenly transported with jubilation. Werner grasps her hand, drawing her closer to him, but not daring to kiss her, afraid that her lips might still be cold.


That same evening they dine together in complete silence. Werner, unable to further divine the truth, senses only how distant she has in effect become, lost in her own secret thoughts. Neither of the two so much as tastes their food. Leni just drains her fine goblet of sweet Moselle wine and hurls the crystal into the blazing fireplace with all her might; it shatters to bits. Without further preamble Leni finally poses the question burning inside of her for so long: "How is it possible that you, a superior being, can have allowed yourself to order a human being to be put to death?" Werner, realizing at once, replies in astonishment: "Is this what has kept you so aloof from me?" When Leni responds in the affirmative, Werner without more ado orders her to proceed with him to the Ministry of Political Affairs. Leni obeys. In spite of that late hour, the government offices are still bustling with activity, because the new Germany will not rest, neither day nor night. At the mere sight of his arrogant uniform, all doors open to make way for Werner.


A few minutes later access is given to a basement corner which serves as a screening room. Werner orders an immediate projection. The screen lights up ... with atrocities -actually, a long documentary on famine, world famine. Hunger in North Africa, hunger in Spain, hunger in Dalmatia, in the Yang-TseKiang Valley, in Anatolia. And just prior to each of these agonies, the punctual appearance in these same areas of two or three implacable beings, always the same ones, wandering Jews bearing death's fateful tiding. All of it accurately registered by the unmistakable camera eye. Yes, funereal merchants, vultures, visiting their feast upon droughts, floods, every type of propitious catastrophe, in order to assemble their satanic banquet: the hoarding of goods, usury itself. And behind them, their retinue, all of them cursed children of Abraham, repeating with mathematical precision the very same operations: first the wheat crops disappear, then step by step the other grains, down to the coarsest of cereals, fit only to feed the cattle. And then the meats, and the sugar, together with the many oleaginous by-products, and fruits and vegetables, fresh and canned. Thus famine runs its dreadful course throughout the cities, and inhabitants flee to the countryside, only to find there as well the vandalistic spectacle which these locusts of Jehovah have left in their wake. And the faces of peoples begin to shrivel up, now no one manages to stand erect, along the horizons of holocaust are etched the vanished silhouettes of the hungry who take a few last steps toward the mirage of a stale piece of bread ... that they will not manage to grasp, ever.


Leni's blood runs cold as she witnesses the projection, but even more, she feels anxious to have the lights back on, in order to dispel a mystery. In short, she wants to find out from Werner the identity of one of those two infamous physiognomies. Thus Leni refers to the two heads of the lethal organization, while Werner glows with excitement, inasmuch as he thinks that Leni has somehow recognized in one of the two faces the very same criminal that he himself had condemned to death, much to the consternation of his beloved. But no, Leni refers to the other one. Werner therefore becomes even more agitated; has Leni somehow succeeded in what the entire staff of Intelligence has come to think of as sheer impossibility? Because Jacob Levy is the most hounded anti-Nazi agent still at large. Leni however offers no clear-cut answer, only that she is sure of having seen that depraved face somewhere before, with its greasy bald head and its long pawnbroker's beard. They run the film backwards and stop the projector wherever the image of that same master criminal appears. Leni makes a superhuman effort but is unable to ascertain where, how and when she has seen the monster.


Finally they leave the projection room, deciding to walk for a few blocks down an avenue dotted with linden trees. Leni continues to be absorbed in the labyrinth of her recollection, certain to have come across this Jacob Levy once before, her only fear being that she might have seen, or better said, imagined him in some nightmare. Werner for his part remains silent, his intention in showing the film to Leni was only to demonstrate what a vile insect he had ordered to be executed, after managing to corner him in a small village near the Swiss border. But with a single gesture, Leni dispels any such cloud in the amorous heaven of Werner, for she has just now taken his rugged right palm with her soft white hands and holds it close to her woman's heart. Everything is explained then, once and for all, how the death of one Hebraic Moloch has meant the salvation of millions of innocent souls.


A light drizzle is coming down over the Imperial City. Leni asks Werner to shelter her with his embrace, tells him it is rest that she needs. When aided by the light of the coming day they will undertake to hunt down the other beast who still runs rampant. But at that instant no snarls are to be heard echoing from the jungles of the world, none at all, because they find themselves in a land chosen by the gods to house their golden mansion, there where the merchants have already lost a first battle against the morality of the Hero.


A sunny Sunday morning now, and Leni has asked Werner to spend this last weekend with her, before his return to Paris, so that they might dedicate some little time to visit the bewitching valleys of the Bavarian Alps. Those same enchanted mountains where the Leader has his vacation home, precisely where during his clandestine period a humble family of peasants had once given him shelter. The grass is green and fragrant, the sun mild, the breeze carries the refreshing coolness of perpetual snows which forever top the huge peaks like sentinels. On the grass a simple peasant tablecloth.


On the tablecloth the frugal diet of a small picnic. But now Leni finds no limit to her curiosity, and asks Werner everything concerning the Leader. At the beginning his words sound difficult to fathom for the girl: ". . . the socioeconomic stalemate in the liberal-democratic states has led to problems which can in essence be solved more effectively, and to everybody's satisfaction, by a form of authoritarian government rooted solidly in the people itself and not in abusive international elites. . ." and so she asks him to speak more plainly about the Leader's own personality and, if appropriate, of his rise to power. Werner relates: ". . . the Marxist rags and Jewish gazettes were announcing only chaos and humiliations for the German people. From time to time they would also publish a false account of the arrest of Adolf Hitler. But this was not possible, inasmuch as no one could recognize him: he had never permitted himself to be photographed. He would crisscross our territory to attend countless secret meetings. At times I myself accompanied him, in precariously small aircraft. I remember all that so well, the motor roared and there we were taking off from the ground and into the night, even in the very midst of storms. But he would pay no attention to the lightning, and would speak to me all wrapped in his sorrow at the tragedy of a people routed by Marxist absurdities, by the poison of pacifism, by every sort of imported idea.... And how many times we traversed this our itinerary of yesterday by auto, and that we shall repeat again tonight, you and I ... from the Alps to Berlin. All the roads were familiar to him, arteries along his route to the hearts of the people. We would halt no more than once, that was all, like you see here now ... we would open up a tablecloth on the lawn, under trees, and partake of our frugal luncheon. A slice of bread, a hard-boiled egg and some fruit was all the Leader would have. In rainy weather we would just have a little pick-me-up right inside the car. And finally we would reach our destination, and at the meeting this very simple man would become a giant, and over rebel broadcasts the ether waves would transmit his hammers of persuasion. He risked his life once and again, because the roads ran red with the bloodthirsty Marxist mania. . ."


A fascinated Leni listens, but wants to learn even more, as a woman, interested in the innermost secret of the Leader's personal strength. Werner answers". . . the Leader manifests himself completely in every one of his words. He believes in himself and in everything he says. He is just what is so difficult to find these days: authenticity. And the people recognize the authentic and grasp it to themselves. The true Why, however, of the personality of the Leader ... will forever remain a mystery, even for those of us most intimately connected with him. Only a belief in miracles can explain it. God has blessed this man, and faith can indeed move mountains, the faith of the Leader and faith in the Leader. .."


Leni leans back in the clover and looks into Werner's limpid blue eyes, eyes of a peacefully confident gaze, inasmuch as they are fixed upon Truth. Leni throws her arms around his neck and can only utter emotionally: ". . . now I understand how much you welcomed his message. You have captured the essence of National Socialism . . ."


There follow, for Leni, weeks of exhausting work in the Berlin studios. And after the last roll of the camera she rushes to the nearest telephone to call her beloved, now engulfed in his Paris assignment. He has a marvelous surprise in store for her, however: he has arranged for a brief furlough with her before their eventual reunion in Paris, and those days they can spend in some gorgeous corner of the nation which now acclaims her: the National Socialist Republic. But Leni has an even greater surprise in store for him: from that very day at the screening of the documentary she has not ceased for one instant to ponder the face of that criminal still at large, and day by day she grows more and more certain of having seen the beast in Paris. She wishes, therefore, to return without delay to that very city and begin their search. Werner accepts-in spite of the fear it causes him-the entry of his Leni into an espionage cadre.


But Leni gets off the train fully confident of her mission, even though the sight of her France causes her grief. In effect, accustomed already to the sun which shines upon the faces of the National Socialist Fatherland, Leni is now disgusted to see her France debased as it is by racial contamination. A France which looks to her undeniably negrified and Jewish. (continues)