Hill of beans, p.10
Hill of Beans, page 10
Our Mercedes comes to a stop. Schwägermann turns off the engine. All we can hear is the sound of its ticking as it cools. I lean close to the girl.
“I do not think we shall see each other again. Well, nothing is certain. Perhaps after the war. My hope for you is that when you are in the air, above the clouds, you will look down on this stinking earth and recall that some things in it are lovely to see—the mountains, the rivers, the lakes—and that some people on its surface will—well, let’s hope they will be able to help you forget. No—do not look at me. I am not looking at you. Do you see? My excellent adjutant is getting out of our automobile. Such a gentleman: he is walking around it to open your door.”
“Where are we?” she asks.
I draw back the window curtains. Men in uniform, eager and smiling, rush forward. They open the boot. The morning sun falls blindingly on the glass windows of Tempelhof.
“At the airport. The executive entrance.”
Schwägermann indeed opens her door. But she does not move.
“Auf Wiedersehen, meine Karelena.”
Still she sits, unmoving. I dare to turn my head to look. Her mouth is moving.
“What is it, Fräulein, that you wish to say?”
A brief pause. Then she repeats her words, this time so that I can hear them.
“Heil Hitler.”
She gets out of the car and, without looking backward, walks away.
Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood: November 1941, Los Angeles
The stork is preparing that package for delivery at Alice Faye’s house between St. Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day. The Herbert Marshalls expect theirs in April.
Jack Warner canceled his tennis match with Bill Tilden for this Sunday because he took off for our nation’s capital and is now holed up as usual on the ninth floor of the Mayflower Hotel. It’s not the exec FDR wants to see. It’s his personal assistant, that Terrible Turk, Abdul Maljan. It seems he does wonders for “that man.” Well, this way Jack can claim he would have won in straight sets!
Since Ginger Rogers switched to drama, most people think she has gone too high-hat for dancing. “But, Hedda,” Ginger told me, “it isn’t true. I’d like nothing better than doing another film with Fred Astaire. But no one has offered me a script.”
Goebbels: First Day of May 1945, Berlin
Another explosion. I feel, or imagine I feel, the ground shift beneath me. The lights flicker, but they do not go out. Magda. In the doorway.
NOVEMBER 1941, BERLIN
By now the Fräulein is in Lisbon. I am free to accept the Führer’s invitation to join him at the Reichskanzlei. He is in a jovial mood. He says that with temperatures now at -7°C, our motored units are able once more to advance. A reconnaissance battalion will soon be at the suburb of Khimki. The domes of Moscow are in sight. I expect him to break into a jig, as in the forests of Compiègne.
After dinner we watch his favorite film. I think he has seen it a hundred times. Warner Bros. Wonskolaser. The plot: at the last minute a chorus member replaces the star. The girls in their little frilled skirts. The identical smiles. The synchronization of movement. This is the perfection of an ideal. Women as the cogs and spokes and gears of an intricate machine. All limbs interchangeable. Replaceable parts. Never a word from their mouths. They spread their legs. The camera moves through them. The Führer is in heaven. Six-inch heels.
Fräulein Karelena Kaiser: November 1941, Above the Atlantic
Sehr Geehrter Herr Dr. Goebbels:
I write you after taking off from the city of Lisbon. Already we are above the clouds. I tell you now the truth: my heart is beating and beating; my breath is like the panting of a dog; I have already scratched with the nails of one hand the wrist of the other—my handkerchief stopped the blood. Why did you send me away? Why did I listen to you? I feel I have been kidnapped. In America they say “shanghaied.” But I was not drugged. No one dragged me aboard a ship. I correct myself. I was drugged. By your voice. Your eyes. Your hands, the way they move through the air. I was hypnotized.
In danger, you said. I am no longer the silly girl that crossed the Wilhelmstrasse with you. The girl who dashed in excitement up the Reichskanzlei steps. That is a role that life had taught me to play. Do you remember? The little Bavarian Mädchen who curtsied before the Führer? You did not have to tell me I was in danger. I know what happened to the other women. His other women. When I was young, I saw all the films of Renate Müller. Not with my father. With Hannelore. My mother. I used to skip along the sidewalk. Ich Bin ja Heut’ So Glücklich. All day long. I carried the song in my head: So Glücklich. So Glücklich. So Glücklich. They were like the words of my talking doll. Of course, half of Germany was singing, too. Also you, my dear Doktor, unless I am quite mistaken. She, too, flew through the air. On her own? Or did the Gestapo throw her through the frame? Because she had been with him. Because she knew what I know.
And so, the words of the hypnotist: Safe in California.
More magical words: that when I flew from Berlin I would look down on beautiful things, lovely things, like the lakes and rivers and mountains. They would lift my spirits, you said. They would help me forget.
Yes, I saw mountains. Yes, the rivers, the lakes, the ponds. For me they held no interest. Yet my face remained pressed to the window. What I wanted to see, what I did see, were the towns, the hamlets, the cities. A railway line. The roads, the crisscrossing roads. Automobiles, a tractor in a field. Smoke from chimneys. Smoke from fires. All the signs of human life, the hurrying human beings. Three times I jumped from my seat. Down the aisle. Not to the cabin door—though I admit that was a temptation: to hurl myself down. No, I ran to the door of the water closet. I wanted one thing in all the world: the pleasure of shitting on every man every woman every child beneath me. What joy at that thought. What pain, like a blade in my belly, twisting my bowels around it like the Führer’s spaghetti around his fork.
The horror of that first flight, Berlin-Lisbon, remains with me now, when I am high above the clouds and the sea. Not because—or not so much because—I still wish to smash through these windows and cast myself down. No, Herr Doktor Reichsminister. The horror is that I want to make this huge flying machine turn around. The horror is that I want to go back. To where Wolf is waiting.
Miss Karelena Kaiser, December 1941, Los Angeles
Sehr Geehrter Herr Doktor Goebbels:
I am now in the city of Los Angeles after traveling across the broad country, first from New York to Chicago, and then from Chicago all the way to the Union Station, with no passengers permitted either to get off or to board the train. My mood with its dark thoughts slowly left me as the thousands of miles went by: the flat plains, the high mountains, and the desert, with American Indian villages and the teepees and the horses, the same as in the pages of Karl May or one of the Hollywood motion pictures. I wonder how you will feel if I tell you the Negro attendants were helpful and pleasant. They did not smell of anything besides the cologne they wore. One, with spectacles, was reading in his free time a novel by Thomas Mann.
You will think with these words I am becoming an American. But do you remember I told you I have caught the German disease? Imagine a scene from one of those novels or one of those films. The savages have tied down the white girl, with her limbs spread and as much of her clothing gone as the censors will allow. The hot desert sun beats down on her, hour after hour. They wish to force her to join their tribe. I could play that part. I could be that girl. But the infection is in my blood. Perhaps it is in my bones. The sun cannot bake it out of me. The dancing Indianer—is it the Navajo tribe? The Apaches? These young braves will be disappointed.
From nowhere, from somewhere, I remember another film, from when I was ten, perhaps eleven. With Joe-Joe beside me, taking his notes. I think it was called, in English—what was it called? Yes! White Zombie. The girl, Madeleine: she climbs from her tomb. She walks under a spell. She is capable of murder. Do not worry, Doktor. Am I not a reanimated corpse? I shall remain loyal. To you. To my only country. To him. I shall be capable of murder as well.
We arrived at Union Station at eleven a.m., Pacific Coast Time. I saw that a small group of people were waiting for me: a man with a little moustache and a bouquet of drooping flowers; next to him a large, dark-skinned, hairless fellow; and off to one side a rather attractive woman, with what looked like a Gugelhöpf on top of her head. Then I was running down the platform and the man with the bouquet stepped forward, grinning with what looked like five hundred white teeth and holding out the flowers, but I went right by him and threw myself into the arms of Alex, my dearest Alex, standing there in his old brown suit; and I kissed him there on the platform and he kissed me, and every thought that had ever entered my head flew away.
I do not know how much time went by—perhaps no more than a minute; then others were running, too, and still others were standing motionless, taking off their hats, and the voice from the loudspeakers was repeating something, and though my English is very good, almost without an accent, they say, I could not understand, as if it were speaking an unknown language. Alex stepped back and shook his head, so serious, and said, “It is war. The Japanese have attacked. They are bombing.” But for a moment this did not for me sink in. My happiness refused to disappear. But at the same time, Dr. Goebbels, I was thinking: that woman. The woman with the hat. Was she the friend you said would be waiting? And, was this your Operation Z?
I am with Alex now. I mean, I am in his small bungalow house on Argyle Avenue. It is two in the morning. He is in his bed. I am at the kitchen table. Yes, writing, Herr Reichsminister, to you. Why? This should be a night of joy. I should be thinking not of you, not of anyone, not of anything. I should be the way I was for that moment in his arms. Yes, another Hollywood ending. Or one from UFA. With music playing.
There are two reasons why. First, America is now at war. I know you did not want this to happen. I fear what you fear: that Germany will join its ally. If that occurs, will this be the last letter I shall be able to send you? Will you be able to read even these words? I do not know. The other reason—it is a sad one, and one difficult for me to say. Why am I not in Alex’s bed? It is not only to write to you. It is because in that bed and in his arms I felt nothing. I could have been a patient. Under Anästhesie. Already it is over between us. He is my Onkel Engel once more. Now I must stop. I hope this letter reaches you. Oh. That person on the platform. With the moustache. With the flowers. That is the man who killed my father.
Goebbels: First Day of May 1945, Berlin
I take my hat. My coat. My Mauser. My gloves. I join my wife and together we go up the flights of stairs until—ah, at last: here is the garden.
PART II
FIGHTING
9
SCOOP OF THE CENTURY
The Terrible Turk: December 1941, Los Angeles
Ring! Ring! Ring! The telephone. I had a prophecy about who it was even before I picked up and heard her voice. “Is that you, Abby?” Only one person ever called me by that name. Right away I felt a stirring below the belt, where the Little Turk makes his home.
“Hello, Hedda,” I said, feeling all over again how the day before she had held onto my arm and pressed her body against mine. It did not matter that this was a woman of some age. I am not a spring chicken myself. “It was good to see you, even in the circumstances.”
“You know I always enjoy seeing you, too, Abby. You look really smashing.”
“Well, so do you.” I pictured her to myself as Maida in Battle of Hearts, which she used to show from her projector against the bedroom wall. Long hair, dark hair, a white sailor suit. Half-bare arms. Just a girl.
“Keep talking and you’ll get half a paragraph! Did you see today’s column?”
“I always read it first. Ahead of the sports. Those weren’t calla lilies.”
“And you weren’t a star in the silents. Sometimes the lily is gilded.”
“What is that, Shakespeare or something?”
“Don’t play the dope with me. You know, you could have been a star. I have a nose for that in people. As a matter of fact, I got a call this morning from the old gray Mayer. He saw my notice, and he says he’s got a part for you. A big part.”
“Did he call you or did you call him? It doesn’t matter. I’m too old. Plus I’m happy here with the Chief. I don’t need to look for more.”
“Stuff and nonsense! I’m building you up so the whole country will want to see you. You’ve got your looks. I could feel those muscles under your jacket. The mature man of mystery.”
“Okay, Hedda. What do you want?”
“Do I have to have an ulterior motive? What if I only wanted to tell you that I enjoyed seeing you yesterday and that it brought back a lot of memories and that I miss you and do you miss me?”
The Little Turk, now more a pasha, doesn’t lie. “I guess I do, to tell you the truth.”
“You know, this war scares me. They say there might be bombings. I’ve got no one. A maid! A cat! And more enemies than the Japs. I’d like to see you.”
“I get off work at six. Would you like me to come over tonight?”
“Tonight? You are a fast worker! La! La! Oh, my dear, I’m a little hard of hearing in my dotage, and there was so much noise and tumult yesterday morning. Could you remind me? What was it that Jack said? Yesterday? At the station?”
Warning bells, a flashing red light. And may the gods laugh: a little shiver of disappointment. “What do you mean? The Chief? He didn’t say anything.”
“You’d better do a girl a favor, Mr. Maljan. That pretty German blonde ran right by him. I could have printed that. But I protected him.”
“Then why not ask him? He owes you the favor.”
“I protected you, too. I know you wanted to help that little Jap. Always the hero! The champion! They would have beaten you to a pulp. Knocked out again! I held you back.”
“No, no, Hedda. I held you so you wouldn’t fall.”
“I told him. Jack said that much, I remember. Told who? Told him what? I’ve got my suspicions. Sunday! I remember that, too. Yesterday was a Sunday. What’s going on, Abby? What’s it all about? Don’t play Mr. Numbskull. If you don’t tell me, plenty of other people will.”
“Hedda, listen. I will do you a favor. Forget it. You don’t—”
“Forget it! I never heard such a thing in my life. Forget this? I told you I’ve got my suspicions. It’s the scoop of the century!”
“Scoop? What scoop? Nothing happened.”
“Warned him! I heard that, too! Now be a darling. Be the sweet man I care for so much. I always think of you. Magic! Didn’t I always say it? Your hands. I am alone. Maybe we can talk tête à tête. Would you like that?”
Human beings. You have no choice except to shake your head when you think about them. Everybody is like two people. Upstairs, in my mind, I was appalled. She stung me like a wasp with every word. But the other part of me, which is the more primitive part, was at those words, I am alone, already a sultan. Head over heart: I told her I was late for work and that I had to go and if she knew what was good for her she would write about something else.
“You two are in this together!” I had to hold the receiver away from my ear, she was shouting so loud. “I know you and Jack and Harry and the whole Warners crowd have it in for the Germans. That’s why you made that dreadful Confessions picture. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I’ve got other sources. What about that Berlin blonde? What if I give her a call? And don’t forget I can build you up or I can tear you down. One of my dearest friends is Mr. Hoover and all I have to do is snap my fingers and you’ll be deported. Or put into a camp. Snap! Did you hear that? Snap!”
And with that the girl in the sailor suit hung up.
Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood: December 1941, Los Angeles
Wouldn’t you know Marlene Dietrich would take advantage of her little accident? She’s wearing on the lapel of her tailored suit two crossed legs of gold, one done up in bandages. It’s as cute as Christmas—
My old friend, Abdul Maljan, that oh-so-Terrible Turk, has overnight turned into one of the hot gents in town. Jack Warner has got his eye on him to play Bill Delaney, the manager for Gentleman Jim Corbett, who’s going to be portrayed by Errol Flynn. That might be interesting, since Maljan has been strutting around Warners telling anybody who will listen he could knock out Flynn with a hand behind his back. Methinks this Turk had better watch his step, and that’s no Instant Bull! He wasn’t born in this country and he could get decked not by Mr. Flynn, who come to think of it wasn’t born here either, but by Mr. Hoover. There’s a fighter who never loses a bout!
Pat O’Brien had to spend a month growing a mustache because the first scene of Trinidad shows Pat shaving one and—
The Terrible Turk: December 1941, Los Angeles
I put down the paper. A right cross and a left hook. Build you up, tear you down. But heaven help me I still found myself waiting for the phone that did not ring. Not that day or the next. But she pulled no punches in her column.
Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood: December 1941, Los Angeles
A little blond birdy who recently flew into town chirped in my ear that the last time super-masseur Abdul Maljan went east to get FDR “on his feet,” he was accompanied by studio boss Jack Warner. That was only a week or so before the Japs pulled their fast one at Pearl Harbor. The smart money is that the two of them had come not for a massage but with a message. And just a few days later glamour girl Cheryl Charmaigne—which is the moniker a certain Fräulein Kaiser was given by Warner to make her more acceptable to American audiences—arrived on our shores from Berlin. A lot of strings had to be pulled to accomplish that trick. She was about a hundred thousand names down the list. This is a mystery for Bulldog Drummond or Miss Christie’s Monsieur Poirot. Just because I haven’t yet put two and two together doesn’t mean that Mr. Jack L. Warner shouldn’t take a word of advice from a friend. We’re all better off when we folk in Hollywood concentrate on what we do best, namely creating wonderful pictures that make the whole world cry and laugh, and not meddle in international affairs. After Jack made that biased Confessions of a Nazi Spy, he had to hire people to dig up his backyard looking for bombs. That’s nothing compared to the explosives he’s tinkering with now. Shoemaker (that’s the profession practiced by Papa Wonskolaser when he, too, came to this welcoming land), stick to your last!
