Free The Kingdom of Shadows by K. W. Jeter Page A

makes sure no mention is made of it in the press.”
     
    “It comes up from the floor?” Wise had to laugh. “Jesus – the only other person I know of with something like that is Jack Warner, back home.” He wasn’t sure if this person knew to whom he was referring. “That’s the head of one of the big studios back in Hollywood, Warner Brothers Pictures –”
     
    “Yes, of course.” A smile appeared in the middle of the dark beard. “I know who Herr Warner is. And so does Goebbels. That’s where he got the notion for his wondrous bar; he read about it and decided he must have one just like it. The UFA set builders came out and put it in for him. All free of charge, a donation, a token of their respect. By all reports, he is quite happy with it. Because it shows that now he is a genuine . . . what is the word? . . . mogul. Yes? Just as in Hollywood.”
     
    “Good for him.” The American glanced at Marte before speaking again. “Does the Reichsminister have any other indulgences?”
     
    “You must mean the women.” Von Behren raised a hand, his gesture sweeping across the hall. “Surely you saw that for yourself.”
     
    Marte could see that the American knew what the director had spoken of. Now that Joseph had left, the reception hall was different, diminished somehow, as though its animating spirit had departed as well. But before that, it must have been obvious, in silent, unspoken ways, the bright chatter that filled the room failing to mask the other forms of communication. The glances, the touch of a woman’s hand to her own bared throat, the tinge of blood growing suddenly warmer beneath the fair skin, the laughter too bright and hard and nervous; the smells of desire and excitement, a mingled odor of perfume and sweat that slid between bodies like a dancing, invisible ghost. All those currents swirled around the slight, seemingly unheroic form of the Reichsminister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, his bright, hungry face above the hobbled body, like iron filings drawn into patterned rings by a magnet. Even the women who were with other men, young actresses holding onto a uniformed arm or laughing prettily at a UFA producer’s joke – without even turning to look, they knew where Joseph was in the hall. And the men – they knew as well. They could see the shadow passing between themselves and the women they escorted, the momentary shift in attention, falter of voice, quick look from the corner of the eye. If the men’s guts screwed tighter in anger or jealousy, they said nothing – not here, not in public – they said nothing because they were afraid, or they were ambitious, or in some other way, they simply acknowledged the power the little clubfooted man held. Not just inside himself, but through him, a door to all the corridors and whispered rooms of the Reich itself.
     
    “You saw, did you not? As soon as you stepped into the hall.” Von Behren nodded slowly as he spoke. “I know that stories get told abroad; that any actress who wishes to appear in German films must first acquire permission from the head of the Propaganda Ministry, a magic piece of paper with the signature of Reichsminister Goebbels on it. And this, of course, gives him what you would perhaps call the privilege of the casting couch – that’s what they would say in Hollywood, is it not? The parade goes through the door of his office and leaves by the back way, each pretty Mädchen adjusting her clothes back in place.” Von Behren leaned forward, turning his head to look into Wise’s eyes. “But you see, don’t you, that it’s not really as simple as that. Even if he were not the Reichsminister ; even if he did not have such power, and the rich man’s things that go with it – still the women would look at him that way. They did before, when he was nothing, a skinny little man in a dirty trench coat, with spittle flying from his mouth as he stood on boxes on streetcorners, shouting over