by Joseph Kanon
He pulled back, hearing Kay’s voice. She wouldn’t like it.
“I thought that was right too. And stealing the money. Everything. And now—” Another minute, the silence like sleep. “It just happened, meeting her. I didn’t plan it.” He made a face. “She did, I guess. I don’t know. But then—she didn’t expect— Anyway, she said so.”
This thought getting away too, his mind wandering out to the garden. Where he and Alexei had stood watching the dark room, saying good-bye. But there was something else, important.
“Do you believe someone can lie,” he said, “and still tell the truth?” His face still turned to the window. “Lie about things. But not the two of you. What happens between you, that has to be the truth, doesn’t it? Or we wouldn’t have anything. Even for a while.”
He stopped, aware that he was talking out loud, that she might actually have heard. Something she couldn’t hear. He turned back to her, covering it.
“The rest I don’t know. That’s a funny thing too. I wanted Tommy to give me a job and now I’ve got it. But not for him.” He leaned forward. “We need to think about what to do. Work for Altan—it’s not illegal exactly, but it’s something. And it won’t stay that way, whatever he says. He wants me to think I can get away with it, everything, but the minute he’s finished with me—” Alexei’s lemon now. “They’re all bastards. All of them. They throw people away. Our side too.” He looked up. “But even so.” He thought of Phil, kneeling with the ground crew.
“We have to leave Istanbul,” he said, his voice firmer, planning. “He thinks I’m trapped, but he doesn’t know about the money. The rest of it, just sitting there. Nobody knows. We can use it to get out. There are ways—that’s what I’ve been doing. I can do it. I’m resourceful,” he said, a rueful joke to himself. “We could go to Italy. Help Mihai with his boats again. Anywhere. We could go home.”
He leaned over, but her eyes were just as still as before and looking at them he saw that there wasn’t any home, just where they already were, in-between.
“It wouldn’t be hard to do if you came back,” he said. “For me to arrange things. Altan wouldn’t suspect. And what could he do, once we were gone. You can’t want to stay there, wherever you are. And I’d be with you. I’d never leave you. You know that. She knew that. She knew that about me. We could—”
And then he was suddenly out of breath, leaning back against the chair, knowing that none of it was going to happen, that all the plans were just a last defiant wriggle before Altan’s chains settled around him.
“I thought it was all for the best. Something I could do,” he said quietly. “For the war. No. Not just that. Exciting. I thought it would be exciting. Be one of those people at the Park.”
Feeling a tightening around his chest, not fear, something staring at him, implacable, his new life. There wouldn’t be any starting over, no new evenings together in Cihangir. What would there be to say? Both of them locked in silence for their own reasons. Even here, having to be careful everywhere. Anna lost to him now too. Then, for only a second, he thought he saw her finger move, maybe sensing it, feeling it with him, the way it would be, and he reached over and covered her hand.
“It’s going to be all right, really,” he said quickly, reassuring. “This is the best place for you and when you’re better— Don’t worry about Altan, I can handle him. He’s no worse than the rest. Look at Tommy. I just have to keep him interested. You learn these things. And actually, I’m good at this. That’s why he— I don’t want you to worry about anything.” Holding her hand tighter, his voice bright, making conversation, keeping everything from her now, not just Kay, everything he’d have to do. “You always liked it here. And you know, a Janissary, if he played his cards right, could become an important man. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head? The last thing we expected but—” Bubbling, keeping her spirits up, away from the rest. “And we’d still have the money if we need it. So there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll be fine.” He stroked her hand. “You know, on the bridge, when I saw your face, you looked just the way you did when we first met. So that must mean something, don’t you think? Nothing’s changed.” He paused. “Not for you.” He looked away, out to the garden. “It’ll be spring soon.” In a month the Judas trees outside would start to blossom all along the Bosphorus. “You could come back for that,” he said.
He waited a minute for an answer, and then nobody said anything at all.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The horrors of Străuleşti, the sinking of the Struma, Ira Hirschmann’s heroic work for the War Refugee Board rescuing European Jews, and the tireless efforts of Mossad le Aliyah Bet (Committee for Illegal Immigration) are all matters of historical record and appear here only as background. The events and people in Istanbul Passage are fiction.
Much has changed in Istanbul since 1945. The city now sprawls beyond its hills to accommodate an estimated eleven million more people. Old tram lines have been discontinued. The fabled Park Hotel was torn down to build a parking garage (with the same fabled view). Robert College is now Bosphorus University. Street names have changed: the old Rue de Pera had already become the Istiklal Caddesi, but now Aya Paşa Caddesi, where Leon lived, is Ismet Inönü Caddesi, etc. Word spellings, in a country that has used a western alphabet only since 1928, keep taking new forms. Haghia Sophia or Aya Sofya? Abdülhammit or Abdul Hamid? Meyhanes or mihanyes? Alternative spellings extend into the Balkans too. The Black Sea port may be Constancia or Constanţa, and its country Romania, Rumania, or Roumania.
Given all this, my hope was to use only those place names and word forms current in 1945, but source materials show the same variants and inconsistencies, so in the end the usage here is whatever I felt would be most familiar to the reader or, sometimes, just personal preference. Of course, as any grateful visitor to Istanbul knows, much has not changed. Sinan’s beautiful buildings still give the city its timeless profile and the fishermen and simit sellers still line Galata Bridge.
STARDUST
Hollywood, 1945. Ben Collier has just arrived from war-torn Europe to find his brother has died in mysterious circumstances. Why would a man with a beautiful wife, a successful movie career, and a heroic past choose to kill himself?
Ben enters the uneasy world beneath the glossy shine of the movie business, where politics and the dream factories collide and Communist witch hunts are rendering the biggest star-makers vulnerable. Even here, where the devastation of Europe seems no more real than a painted movie set, the war casts long and dangerous shadows. When Ben learns troubling facts about his own family’s past and embarks on a love affair that never should have happened, he is caught in a web of deception that shakes his moral foundation to its core.
Rich with atmosphere and period detail, Stardust flawlessly blends fact and fiction into a haunting thriller about the glory days of the movies and the dark strain in American political life, brilliantly proving once again why Joseph Kanon has been hailed as the “heir apparent to Graham Greene” (The Boston Globe).
Read on for a look at Joseph Kanon’s
Stardust
Currently Available from Atria Books
Excerpt from Stardust copyright © 2009 by Joseph Kanon
A MAN RIDES INTO TOWN
AS IT HAPPENED, Sol Lasner was also on the train. Ben spied him first on the red carpet at Grand Central posing for photographers, like one of his stars. Shorter than Ben remembered, his barrel chest wobbling on thin legs, storklike, but with the same tailored look, natty. He gave a quick, obligatory smile to the flashbulbs, then herded a group of men in suits onto the train, back to business. At Croton, where they switched over to the steam engine, most of the suits got off for the ride back to the city, but two stayed on through dinner, so Ben didn’t have a chance to talk to him until they were past Albany, when the landscape had already turned dark and there was nothing to observe from the observation car but blurs of street lamps and platform lights streaking past.
He’d been sitt
ing near the rounded back of the car, smoking and staring out at nothing, when Lasner came in, holding a cigar. He nodded to Ben, not recognizing him, and for a moment Ben was tempted to let it wait, talk later on the Army’s time. The next few days were supposed to be his, little shrouds of time to wrap himself up in, prepare for the funeral, stare out windows, get used to it.
The long-distance call to Danny’s wife has taken hours to put through, her voice scratchy with bad connections, or grief. What kind of accident? “A fall. It’s in the papers as an accident. You know, anyone can fall. So they put it in that way.” But it wasn’t? Ben had asked, disconcerted, feeling his way, listening to the precious seconds tick by. “Look,” she’d said finally, “you should know. You’re his only family,” but then went quiet again. You mean he tried to take his life? “Take his life?” she’d said, confusing him until he realized that it was a translation problem, an idiom she hadn’t picked up. Hans Ostermann’s daughter. Tried to kill himself, he said. “Yes,” she said reluctantly, then drew a breath, moving past it. “But they didn’t want to say. You know what it’s like here. Everything for the good name. Nothing bad ever happens. It’s better if it’s an accident, in the papers. So I said it, too.” There was a snort of air, like a shrug over the phone. “But his brother— you have a right.”
Rambling on, making no sense to him now, or maybe he had just stopped listening, his head dizzy with it. Not a crash, a virus, some act of fate, but something willed, a scream of unhappiness. “I’m sorry for this news,” she’d said before he could ask more. “Is it possible for you to come now? He’s in a coma. So still alive. I don’t know how long. They don’t expect—so if you could come.” And then the reserved time was running out, and instead of questions there were logistics and plans. But what answers could anyone have? Something that only made sense to Danny, the most private act there was.
To his surprise, there had been no problem having the Army move up the trip. The problem was getting there, with the trains the way they were. Then something last minute opened up on the Chief, if he was willing to sleep sitting up on the Century to meet it, so he’d packed a duffel, sent the wire, and now found himself riding with Sol Lasner. Who could wait—the Army’s assignment—while he took his personal leave, brooding. Days to think about it, all the way to California. Meanwhile, Lasner was lighting the cigar, looking out the window and then at his watch, checking some invisible schedule.
“Any idea where we are?”
“Just past Schenectady.”
Lasner drew on the cigar, looking out again. “Upstate,” he said. “Goldwyn’s from here. Gloversville. They made gloves. That’s what he was, a glove man. Well, why not?”
Just talking to himself, not really expecting a reply, but suddenly Ben took the opening anyway. The meeting had fallen into his lap, personal leave or not.
“Mr. Lasner?”
Lasner turned, peering at him.
“Sorry. You probably don’t remember. We met last month overseas, on the Army trip. Ben Collier.” He held out his hand. “I was one of the liaison officers. Translator.”
Lasner took his hand, looking closely, still trying to place him. “The guy with the rooms, right? The one got Eddie Mannix the Ritz in Paris.”
Ben smiled. “And Zanuck. And Balaban. Colonel Mitchell arranged it. He figured they’d want the Ritz. Kind of people used to it.”
“I got news for you,” Lasner said, pointing with the cigar. “You think Harry Cohn’s used to the Ritz? Some hot-sheet place down on Flower—that’s what he’s used to.” He shook his head. “I still don’t know what that trip was. A stunt. Army puts a bunch of us in uniform, takes us around. What did they get out of it?”
What did they? Harry Cohn played poker in his suite, ignoring Paris. Everywhere the jockeying for the best hotel rooms, the special transports. Ben remembered the winding road up to Berchtesgaden, lined with jeeps, a new tourist attraction, GIs hunting for souvenirs while the executives stood at Hitler’s vast picture window, little tyrants finally humbled. A ride on Hitler’s yacht. Hamburg, where people had melted into the pavement during the firebombing. The camps, even worse. A few survivors still there, too emaciated and stunned to be moved. In town, packs of children, foraging. How much had they seen from their requisitioned rooms?
“It was Ike’s idea. Thinks people should see it. What happened. So the State Department sends groups over. That was the studio tour. There was another for the newsreel editors. See what it’s like.”
“At the Ritz.”
“And Dachau.”
For a moment there was no sound but the click of wheels beneath them.
“I was there,” Ben said quietly. Watching Lasner stagger against a building, his face in his hands, sobbing. “I know it made an impression on you.”
Lasner rounded his cigar in the stand-up tray, smoothing off the ash.
“We’re making a picture about it.”
“Who’s making?”
“I’m in the Signal Corps. We shot film there. What the newsreels didn’t.”
“You personally?”
“No, I collect the film. See it’s put together for briefings, whether we can do something more. Information length, maybe features. If not, V shorts. Depending on the footage. What you do, in a way. Produce.”
Lasner waved his hand. “And now you’re out of a job.”
“Not yet. The Battle of San Pietro got a lot of play. And the Tokyo film did okay on general release, so the exhibitors are still interested. And there’s Ike’s film coming.”
“Who’s releasing?” Lasner said quickly.
“Columbia.”
Lasner grunted.
“You know how it works. War Activities Committee—Freeman, at Paramount—assigns the pictures on a rotating basis. All the majors. It was Columbia’s turn.”
“The majors. What am I? They still think Continental’s a Poverty Row shop? Next year, we’ll outgross RKO, but me they give the training films. You know what it costs me? We get four to five thousand a reel. But we throw in the production, the overhead, the salaries for chrissake. Add it up, it’s more like seven thousand a reel and we just eat the difference.” He tapped the cigar again, calmer. “Not that I mind. You know, for the war. But you don’t hear Freeman calling me with a feature, either.”
“He will be.”
Lasner glanced up at him. “What’s this, a pitch?”
Ben leaned forward. “We’re sitting on a ton of footage. They’re setting up trials. This is what they’re all about. People need to see this. We want to work with a studio to put it together.”
Lasner shook his head. “Let Columbia do it. You think people want to see this? Nobody wants to see this.”
“They should.”
“Should. You know, Freeman asks, it doesn’t mean we have to do it. These war films—it’s all strictly voluntary. And now, after the war? Nobody’s going to make this picture.”
“I thought you’d want to.”
Lasner looked at him for a long minute, then sighed.
“Let me tell you something. Nobody needs a picture about killing Jews. What else have they been doing? Since forever.”
“Not like this,” Ben said quietly, so that Lasner busied himself putting the cigar out, avoiding him.
“Wonderful,” he said finally. “Cohn gets Eisenhower and I get— I’ll think about it. Let Freeman call. We’ll see.” A dodge.
“I’ll be at the Signal Corps base in Culver City. A local call.”
“Fort Roach.” He caught Ben’s look. “Hal Roach’s old studio. The Army took it over. They’ve got some of my people down there. Drafted. My best cutter. Splicing film on VD. How does your prick look with crabs. Talk about a waste of a good technician.” He glanced up. “You want to make the picture there? Fort Roach?”
“No, I want to make it at Continental. With you.”
“Because we were such good pals in Germany. Looking at things.”
“Freeman said you were the first
call to make. You were there for the Relief Fund. You hired refugees in ’forty. You—”
“So back to the well.”
“He said the others think they’re Republicans.”
Lasner snorted. “Since when did Frank get funny? If I heard two cracks from him my whole life it’s a lot.” He shook his head, then snorted again. “Mayer keeps a picture of Hoover in his office. Hoover. And now with the horses. A Jew with horses. So he’s fooling every-body.” He paused. “Don’t push me on this. We’ll talk. In an office. We make a picture if it makes sense to make a picture. Not just someone tells me it’s good for the Jews. Anyway, what kind of name is Collier?”
Ben smiled. “From Kohler. My father. It means the same thing.”
“So why change it? Who changes names? Actors.”
“My mother. After the divorce, we went to England. She wanted us to have English names. My father stayed in Germany.”
“Stayed?”
“He was a Mischling. Half.”
“And that saved him?”
“He thought it would.”
Lasner looked away. “I’m sorry. So it’s personal with you? That’s no good, you know, in pictures. You get things mixed up.”
“Not personal that way. I just want to get this done and get out of the Army. Same as everybody.”
Lasner picked up the cigar again and lit it, settling in.
“Why’d you pick the Signal Corps?”
“They picked me. My father was in the business. Maybe they thought it got passed down, like flat feet. Anyway, I got listed with an MOS for the Signal Corps.”
“What’s MOS?”
“Military Occupational Specialty. Civilian skill the military can use. Which I didn’t have, but the Army doesn’t have to make sense. They probably wanted guys with German but everybody did, so they grabbed me with an MOS. And once you’re assigned—”
“Well, at least it kept you out of combat.”
“Until last winter. Then they needed German speakers with the field units.”