The Extra (12 page)

“Yes,” the girls all answered. They were getting up to leave. Rosa yawned. “You know,” she said, still yawning, “I had to keep reaching out, at least ten, twelve times, to touch the castanets she was going to dance with. They shot it from every which way.”

When the other girls had left the hayloft, Lilo noticed that Django had suddenly grown quite still. “Django, are you becoming invisible?” she tried to joke.

“That’s just the problem,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He slid his eyes toward Lilo. “Your mother is, too, Lilo, and me.”

“What — too what?” she asked. A dark feeling was rising inside her.

“We — me and your mother — have been too invisible. We’ve been here, what? Almost three weeks. No close-up shots. Only long shots. We’re replaceable. I mean, all they shot were my hands on that accordion. They could be anybody’s hands.”

“No! No!” She wanted to say, “No one could have hands like yours.” She loved his hands. She looked down and reached out, touching his right hand lightly.

“You mean replaceable with Marzahn Gypsies?”

Django nodded but said nothing.

Lilo returned to what she and her mother called their hay bale apartment. They had stacked nine bales of hay to make a small three-walled enclosure for their sleeping pallet. The fourth side of their sleeping area was the barn wall. The moonlight slid like a silver blade through the crack of the boards, casting its light on her mother’s tired face. Lilo looked at it, not daring to stroke the cheek for fear of waking her. It was a wonderful face despite its gauntness. She was so thin that the outline of her teeth and gums made a slight impression on the space above her upper lip. Just the day before, she had lost one of her front teeth. It had simply dropped out. It was as if with not enough real food to chew, their teeth became loose — loose from disuse perhaps or most likely malnutrition. But at least her mother’s bleeding had stopped.

Lilo simply had to figure out a way to get her mother to Babelsberg.

My mother is not replaceable.
Nor is Django!
Miteinander!
She suddenly realized. The thought shocked her. There was indeed no one quite like Django. It was not just that he was so smart and that they all needed him to figure things out. It was that Django, despite all his annoying ways, had crept beneath Lilo’s skin, inched his way into perhaps her heart, and now haunted the edges of her soul like a soft mist.

Lilo lay close to the barn board and pressed the side of her face against the crack. It was her new viewfinder through which she could scan the world for a place for herself, her mother, and Django. But all she could see now was the moon riding high and full in the crisp night air.
I must think about a close-up shot — no more long shots — for Django and Mama,
she told herself, then silently repeated,
No more long shots.
In her mind, she began framing their faces.

The moon was so perfectly round. Suspended in the night, it seemed to quiver slightly. But as Lilo watched the glinting orb through the crack in the wall, it did not slip away to another night in another world, but darkened and shrank. Then into her dreamless sleep, an eye floated up. “Call me Tante Leni.” The voice giggled, and Lilo rolled over. Outside, the guards were roasting chestnuts in a grate. The mouthwatering scent drifted into the barn. She spied a shadow by the fence. At first she thought it was a small animal — a lamb perhaps, escaped from a lambing pen. But no! It was the little girl, crouching down where she had first met Lilo’s mother. She looked around furtively, then ran off. What was she doing up this late, outside all by herself? Was she looking for Bluma?

Quietly Lilo got up. The barn door was no longer locked at night since they had enlarged the enclosure and built new latrines farther from the barn for the prisoners to have access to. It was only the fence prickled with barbed wire that was locked. There were rumors that they might electrify it, but so far they had not. Lilo slipped around to where the little girl had been standing. She saw that the dirt was loose around the fence stake. When she put her hand down, she felt heat. Scratching away the dirt, she nearly cried out when her fingers touched the chestnuts, still hot from the fire. She dropped them into the folds of her skirt and ran back to the barn.

Three minutes later, she had woken her mother, and they were peeling back the tough skin.

“Liesel!” her mother said, and her eyes twinkled. “What a little rascal.”

“Is this the first time she has brought you things?”

“First time for food. But she is always bringing me little trinkets.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lilo felt a prickle of jealousy.

“She made me promise not to, and I was really worried about her getting into trouble. But I did make a drawing of her kitten.”

“Mama, that is dangerous. Really dangerous,” Lilo said solemnly.

“But you don’t understand. Her mama died last spring. The girl is lonely. She worries that her father is going to marry the mean lady.”

“What mean lady? There are several, I think,” Lilo said, savoring the rich crumbs of the chestnut still on her tongue.

“Not Leni. Some rather wealthy lady in the next village over. And Liesel’s older sister is in love with the head guard, Gunther.”

Bluma reached out her hand and stroked her daughter’s arm. Lilo felt foolish. But in truth she wanted her mother all for herself.
No more sharing,
she thought stubbornly. Sometimes it felt good to simply give in to her most infantile instincts if even for just a moment.

“Here, you take the last chestnut.” Bluma pushed it toward her.

“Mama, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Bluma insisted.

“No, let’s divide it.” Lilo said.

“How do you divide a chestnut with no knife?”

“Peel it and use your teeth,” Lilo replied.

“I don’t have enough teeth. Remember?” She grinned, the dark hole making her smile ghoulish.

“Okay, I’ll bite it.” Lilo took the peeled nut, carefully bit it in two, and gave one half to her mother, vowing not to be jealous again.

F
rom the time she woke up the next morning, she was desperate to figure out a way to get her mother and Django into close-up shots. On this particular morning, the extras had to be taken to the set in a smaller bus in two loads, as the larger bus had broken down yet again. Django was in the first load, and by the time Lilo got to the enclosure, he was almost jumping up and down with excitement.

“You found a way for you and Mama to get in close-up shots.”

“Not me, but definitely you and we’ll think of something for your mother.”

“I don’t need a way. It’s you and Mama who need a way.”

“Don’t quibble. This could really work out.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m working on it. I’ll organize something.”

“All right. So what have you organized for me?”

“Tante Leni can’t ride.”

“Can’t ride what?” Lilo asked blankly.

“A horse —
mein Gott
!” He slammed his palm into his head as if to say, how stupid can you be? “She almost fell off this morning.”

“These old plugs? They hardly move,” Lilo said, glancing over at the corral.

“But you can ride. They think it’s too dangerous for Leni to try the riding scenes. But you . . . you can be her stand-in — or her ride-in! And they are going to shoot some riding scenes in Babelsberg indoors on the soundstages.” He laughed. “I already told them. Look, that fellow Harald is walking this way. He’s going to ask you.”

“But what about Mama? How do we get her in on this?”

Django sighed. “Do I have to think up everything? Make something up. An excuse for why you need her — I don’t know.” He sighed again. “Be inventive!” He looked around at the set. “Nothing’s real here — the village is fake. The Spanish dancer is a Nazi. The shepherd is an Austrian ski instructor. It’s all fiction. What’s a little bit more?”

Django was right. Had Lilo not vowed to learn from Django so she could figure things out? Well, this was her first real test. The test was walking toward her — Harald Reinl, the assistant director and choreographer. A thought suddenly came to her. Tante Leni’s dancing wasn’t very good. Whether it was because of his choreography or her lack of talent, Lilo wasn’t sure. But she would have to pretend that Harald Reinl was the most fabulous choreographer. What else did she know about him? She certainly could see that Tante Leni kept him on a short leash. She had snapped at him that first day on the set —“
I don’t give a goddamn what Arnold thinks. I fired him.” He doesn’t want to get fired,
Lilo thought. He had also worried about Unku being too pretty. Lilo’s mind was racing. She had to pull all these bits of information, scraps of things she knew about him, and work them into a piece so she and her mother could both go to Babelsberg.

“Where’s the girl who can ride?” Harald Reinl asked.

Lilo raised her hand shyly. He strode up to her and put a hand under her chin to lift it. “What’s your name?”

“Lilian Friwald.”

“Well, Lilian, how would you like to ride a lovely horse in the movie? We’ll pretend that you are Fräulein Riefenstahl. I know you were one of the street urchins in the close-up shots, but these will be mostly long shots. So I don’t think it will matter. No one will know it’s the same girl. You see, we need a shot of her riding on a horse through the entrance to the village, and then another when she rides out of the village with Pedro. Then some very distant shots of her riding against a setting sun with the mountains in the background. In those shots, we would like the horse to be cantering, but not a full gallop. What do you say?”

As if I have a say,
Lilo thought.

She tucked her lips in and pressed them together as if she were thinking hard. “Hmm?” he said. She could tell that he was surprised that she had not answered more quickly. Lilo knew she had to play this right. “Where did you learn to ride?” he asked.

“My uncle Andreas, my mother’s brother, was a trainer at the Spanish Riding School. We always went to the stud farm in Piber for our holidays.”

“Ha!” He chuckled softly. “I thought Gypsies were always on holiday.”

Ignore the insult, Lilo! Ignore it. He doesn’t know any better.

“So you like this idea?” he pressed.

“Yes, I do. But my mother, may she always be present?” She looked up at him with a fragile half smile.

“Well, is she here?”

“Oh, yes, she plays one of the village peasants. You know, with the water jug on her head.”

He looked over at the four or five women who were standing near the jugs they were soon to carry, then turned back to Lilo. “I don’t understand. Why must she always be with you?”

“She knows horses.” Lilo looked up and flashed him a different kind of smile, slightly embarrassed this time. “You know we’re Gypsies. We’re superstitious and . . .” She sighed. “Well, I have never fallen off when my mama was there. A horse has never shied when my mama was there.”

“How close does she need to be?” His brow crinkled.

“Oh, just on the set. Near enough to see me and the horse.”

“Well, I don’t see any problem. We don’t want you falling off the horse. That’s settled. Go off to the costume lady to be fitted for your riding costume.”

“What have you gotten me into, Lilo? I know nothing about horses.”

“You’re Uncle Andreas’s sister. You have to know something. All those summers in Piber.”

“But what am I supposed to say to a horse?”

“You don’t have to say anything to the horse. Just stand there and look like you know horses. You know, pretend. It’s the only way, Mama. Pretend! I needed you for the horse, not for myself,” She paused. “For yourself, Mama.” Then Lilo explained about Babelsberg. “Just look like you know horses.”

Bluma touched her daughter’s cheek. Lilo looked up into her face. Her mother was doing that funny thing with her mouth that meant she was trying not to cry, trying to look brave. “You and me, that’s all we’ve got. Right?
Miteinander!
”

Miteinander
— it was getting a bit more complicated because now . . . now, Lilo thought, there was Django. Where did he fit in? And for a moment, she was swept with guilt.

“Right?” her mother asked again.

“Right, Mama.” She looked down and felt a horrible hollowness inside her.
What about Papa? Papa, where are you now?
She suddenly missed him terribly. Was he dead? If he was and yet she did not know it, he was still alive, in her mind. No one really died until you knew it. If she lost them both, she thought she might break, really break, break in two. For the first time, she wondered about his shop on Kirchestrasse. She pictured all the clocks waiting for him, all the watches, each in its cubby in the lined drawers, waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting. The gears frozen from neglect since no one was there to wind them. What would happen to them all?

Lilo was dressed for the scene in a riding skirt with a vest, and a kind of lady’s sombrero, smaller than a man’s. She caught a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe room and felt that she actually looked quite stylish. There were two horses waiting as she approached. When Lilo walked up, they were pasting some extra hair on one of the actor’s head because he had a hairline that backed up halfway across his skull.