“What’s Sunday?”
“My father’s birthday. Salka makes a big lunch. Dieter comes and makes a toast—he writes it out before, a real speech. My father thanks him. Then he says something. It goes on like that, every year. Then chocolate cake.”
“The one Danny liked.”
“Yes,” she said, a sudden punctuation mark. She stubbed out her cigarette, then got up and poured more wine in their glasses. “They sent the medical report you asked for. It’s on the desk.”
“What does it say?”
“He died,” she said, sitting back down.
“I’ll look at it later.”
“Why?”
He said nothing for a minute, listening to the pool water hit against the drain flaps.
“I don’t know. How he died. It’s something we should know—it’s part of it all.”
She looked over at him for a second, about to speak, then let it go.
“If you say so,” she said wearily. “So what do we wear to Lasner’s? They dress up?”
“I’ll ask Bunny.”
She turned, a question.
“His right hand, his— I don’t know what you’d call him. He used to be a child star.”
“That’s what happens to them? I never think of them grown up.”
“Neither do they. Then they are and they have to do something else. But they look the same. Just older. Remember Wolf Breslau? The little boy in the Harz Mountain films? He became a Nazi. They put him on trial. For killing Poles. In open pits. The same baby face.”
She was quiet for a minute. “Someone you saw in the Kino,” she said to herself. “How can anybody go back?” She shook her head. “My father says Heinrich’s making plans. To go back to that.” She took a sip of wine. “And what about you? What are you going to do? Now that you’re grown up. Make pictures?”
“No.”
“No? Lasner must like you. Inviting you to dinner.”
“He likes me this week. One in the family’s enough.” Was. “My father always expected Danny to—”
“But not you. So.” Another sip, thinking. “Did you like him?”
“My father?”
“No. Daniel.”
The question, never asked, took him by surprise, something tossed in the air that hung there, incapable of being answered.
“I mean, families, people don’t always— So many years, you didn’t see each other. I just wondered.”
“That was the war.”
“Ah,” she said, the sound floating up to join the question, still suspended.
He looked out toward the city. “I wanted to be him,” he said finally.
“When you were boys.”
“Yes.” When did that stop? Does it? He smiled, moving away from it. “He was good with girls.”
“And not you?”
“I got better.”
“They say in Germany now you can get a girl for a pack of cigarettes. One pack.”
“That’s not all you’d get.”
“So it’s not for you, the easy ones. I can see that. It wouldn’t be— how do you say schicklich?”
“Proper. Seemly.”
“Seemly,” she said, trying it, then took another sip of wine. “The first time I met him—he’d undress you. Look right at you. He wanted you to know he was doing it. So people are different. You look at me from the side. You don’t want me to know you’re looking.” She waved her hand at him before he could say anything. “It’s all right. It’s nice, someone looking. Don’t be embarrassed.” She paused. “I like you looking.”
He turned to her, not sure how to respond.
“If it makes you uneasy, my being here—”
She shook her head. “No. It doesn’t matter. That’s not the way it would happen. I know you a little now. You look from the side. You’d wait. You’d wait for me to say. To start it. That’s how it would happen.” She looked at him. “Don’t you think?”
A direct look, not from the side, holding his. He felt blood rise to his skin, as if she had touched him. Danny’s wife.
“Maybe,” he said. “And maybe you’re having fun with me.”
“No.” She smiled, looking down at her glass. “Maybe the wine is.” She sat up, a drowsy stretch, gathering the robe. “Anyway, it wouldn’t be seemly, would it? Not yet.”
“No.”
“Not even cold. That’s what they’d say, yes? Well, I’m going in.” She picked up the bottle to take with her. “Have a swim if you like,” she said, moving off, then smiled at him. “I won’t look.”
HE SAT for a while, his mind drifting but then, like the water, lapping back. Schicklich. The inside of a marriage was unknowable, curtained off. He listened for sounds of her inside, but only the crickets broke the quiet. Maybe she was already in bed, not at all uneasy because she knew the way it would happen.
On his way in, he stopped at the screening room to pick up some of the office papers Republic had sent over. Scripts, drafts. What had been in his mind those last weeks? Not that Partners in Crime was likely to be revealing—formula stuff, two brothers having fun, as frivolous as Otto’s comedies.
He went over to an open film can. The film itself was still in the projector, not yet run through and put away, the last thing Danny had seen. Maybe a Continental picture with a young star, someone he wanted to watch over and over? Ben flicked the switch, half-expecting to see Ruth or Rosemary—any girl you’d want to spend an afternoon with at a residential hotel. Instead it was a Fox Movietone newsreel, men shaking hands right after Hiroshima. Ben rewound the film and started it again.
First, the usual opening montage with the water-skiers, then the airmen at Tinian Island, the ground crew loading the bomb, kneeling with the pilots in front of the plane, a picture everybody’d seen now, instant history according to the voice-over. But the camera had been there, too, recording it, making a movie. And in the plane, flying now through the clouds.
The flash and mushroom cloud, the whole city rolled up in smoke, the narrator excited by the scale of it, the most powerful thing the world has ever known. No voice, though, over the next segment, shot later, a silent sweeping pan of the charred, flattened city. A few figures picking their way through the landscape, otherwise no movement at all. More pan shots, the frame of a domed building by the river, the rest vaporized. Congratulations all around back home, scientists and generals shaking hands. They’d made a movie of it, sent cameras up, got flight crews to pose. But so had the Nazis, filming atrocities with smiling faces. That’s how they’d identified Wolf Breslau, caught on film on the rim of the mass grave, smiling, unable to resist one last close-up.
The newsreel went on to the surrender scene on the Missouri, but even the narrator, booming with victory, couldn’t lift the film from the streets of ashes. The voice wanted to celebrate, throw a hat in the air like the relieved sailors, but the words said one thing and the pictures showed another—this was the way it would be now, the way we would die. Kissing couples, the narrator announcing a world of hope. But it wasn’t, Ben thought. Not now. Just an endless dread.
Ben took the reel off and put it in its canister. Not frivolous. Maybe Partners wasn’t the whole of him, maybe the war had touched something deeper, just as Ben’s life had been upturned by the camps, both of them alike under the skin.
He turned off the light and went into the house. On the desk in the study, just as she’d said, he found the autopsy report. He glanced through it. Medical English, not English at all, nearly incomprehensible. He heard a sound from her room, a turning perhaps, something dropped, meaningless in itself except as a sign of life. Just behind the door. He smiled to himself. Schicklich. How do we decide what’s right? He looked down again at the sheet. Pulmonary—something to do with the lungs. But of course she was right. All it said was that Danny was dead.
• • •
“WAS THERE some problem?” Dr. Walters said, caught on the run in the hall, not sure why Ben had come.
“I don’t know the te
chnical terms. I’m not sure what they actually mean.”
“Simple language? He stopped breathing.” He halted midstep. “I’m sorry. I know it sounds like a joke. All I mean is that there were no signs of stroke—that’s the usual cause after a head trauma, edemal bleeding flooding the brain.”
“But not in this case.”
“No. Or heart damage. There are only a few ways to die. Of course, these are all connected.” He paused, framing his hands, explaining to a classroom. “Think of the brain as a switchboard. The operator pulled a line connected to the lungs. Like being cut off on a call,” he said, looking up, waiting to see if Ben was following. “The board controls everything. The lungs don’t operate by themselves.”
“Is that common?”
“Yes. Mr. Kohler, with a head injury like this, the surprising thing is that he didn’t die instantly. I gather he was lucky in the response time— the ambulance got to him before he lost too much blood. So that bought him some time. I’m sorry.”
“But if he regained consciousness—”
“We don’t rule out miracles,” he said patiently. “But I’m a doctor, you know, not a priest. This is what we expected to happen.” He waited for Ben to reply.
“Was there anything—any sign that he may have been injured before he fell?”
“Before.”
“Knocked out, anything like that.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“By someone else. Before.”
Dr. Walters peered at him, disconcerted. “No. But I’m not a policeman, either. Is there any reason to think this happened?”
“I just wanted to look at everything. Every possibility.”
Dr. Walters nodded. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kohler. These things can be hard to accept.” He looked down at the paper in Ben’s hand. “Maybe that’s why we hide behind the language.”
He had stopped by the hospital on his way to lunch and now found himself running late, caught in the traffic west to Fairfax. Kelly had suggested the Farmers Market, somewhere away from the studio, a pointless Dick Tracy feint, but not worth arguing about.
The market had started as a collection of produce stalls for Depression farmers, but now had the look of a small studio—permanent buildings for the stalls and restaurants, table seating on patios and its own logo clock tower, looking over the parking lot like the RKO globe. Everything was painted cream and light green and maroon, what Ben thought of as leftover colors, the same ones Lasner had used at Continental, maybe even from the same cheap supply. Kelly was already at a table under the trees, nursing a beer.
“So what have we got?” he said as Ben sat down, his eyes darting over Ben’s shoulder.
“Not much. No matches from the building list.” He pulled out a paper. “These are the top contract players, the ones they might want to protect, but that doesn’t mean it’s one of them. And they’re not big names. Lasner doesn’t—”
“Yeah, I know, the loan-out king. Who’s he got borrowed, by the way. He’d want to take care of them, at least until the picture’s out. Listen,” he said abruptly. “You mention me to anyone? Tell them I’m looking at this?”
“No. You said—”
“You sure?”
Ben nodded. “Why?” he said, aware now of the look in Kelly’s eyes, his quick movements.
“Maybe my imagination. Except it never is, is it? Don’t turn around—no, don’t, I mean it. People always do that. Take a look when we get up for the food. There’s a guy over by the raw bar. I notice he’s casing the place, and he looks familiar and then it comes to me—he was hanging around Republic. When I’m there checking the talent. This is before I hear about Continental. Some coincidence, if you believe in that. So maybe he’s keeping an eye, you know? The guy’s a cop— everything about him—and I’m thinking, what the hell, the cops enforce for the studios, so maybe someone—”
“I didn’t say a word,” Ben said, beginning to turn.
“No, don’t. He’ll pick up on it. Let’s eat. You like seafood? They have a great Crab Louis.”
They got up and walked across the patio to the sales counter. He spotted him immediately—the man in the gray suit reading a paper, almost hidden behind a tree but scanning the patio just as he had the crowd at the funeral, the reception afterward. Ben gave a don’t-worry shake of his head to Kelly, and ordered the crab. A huge plate, enough for two.
“I know him,” he said when they sat down again. “He works for Polly.”
“No, he doesn’t. He may feed her, but he doesn’t work for her. I know all her runners. So what’s he feed her. He’s a cop. Maybe even Bureau. He’s got that look. He could be Bureau.”
“Calm down. You’re—”
“Cop shows twice, something’s up. You learn these things. So what the fuck does he want?”
“He came with Polly. To the funeral. That’s all I can tell you. Your name never came up at the studio. You’re sure he’s a cop?”
“Some kind of cop. Has to be.”
“I’m going to the head. See if he watches.”
He walked to the men’s room past piles of oranges, but the man in the gray suit seemed not to notice, his gaze still fixed toward the other end of the dining patio, an easier sight line than the side angle to Kelly. People in shirts having lunch, big California salads. A few suits. Liesl’s father. Ben stopped. Ostermann saw him at the same time and nodded. Impossible now not to go over. Ben signaled to Kelly that he’d only be a minute, using the turn to check on the man in the gray suit, absorbed again in his paper. Meanwhile, Kaltenbach was waving him to their table.
“So, you know this place?” he said standing, playing host. “A coffee? You’ll join us?”
Ben shook his head. “I’m with somebody. Just a hello.”
“A little bit of Europe,” Ostermann said, gesturing to the patio. “Not a real Biergarten, but still, trees. You can pretend.”
Ben looked down at their plates—sausages and deli potato salad, what they might in fact have ordered at Hechinger’s.
“That’s what everyone does here,” Kaltenbach said, waving his hands to take in the city. “Pretend.” He looked over at Ben, excited. “Do you know that I am going to Berlin?”
“Berlin,” Ben said, thinking of smashed bricks, jagged walls.
“Yes, I know, it’s bad now, you hear it from everyone, but still, Berlin. Something survives. I thought I would never see it again. I thought I would die here.” He gestured to the sunny patio, the healthy salad eaters, seeing something else. “And now—”
“How did you arrange it?” Ben said. “I thought nobody could get in, except the Army. A few reporters. You need a permit.”
“Yes, yes, another exit visa. But Hans here will write a letter. Thomas Mann, too. Who would say no to them? Why would they keep me here? On relief. Eighteen dollars and fifty cents a week. A charity case. You don’t think they’ll be happy to see me go? One last visa and it’s over. If Erika were still alive, think how happy.”
“Maybe you should wait,” Ben said, “until things are better. It’s difficult now, just to live.”
“No, they’re giving me a flat.”
“Who?”
“The university. I’m invited to accept a chair at the university.”
“But it’s in the Soviet sector.”
“Yes, of course, that’s who invites me.”
Ben glanced at Ostermann, who met his eye but then looked deliberately away, toying with his fork.
“They are going to print my books again.”
“The Soviets?”
“My friend, one conqueror or another, what’s the difference? Germany lost the war. Do you think the Russians will leave now? How else can I do this? I can be a writer again. I can be in Berlin,” he said in a kind of rush, emotional now, almost touching it. “Excuse me,” he said, putting a fingertip to his eye. “So foolish. Old age. And now the bladder. I’ll be right back.”
Ben watched him head for the men’s room.
; “He’s not a political man,” Ostermann said quietly.
“He will be. The minute he gets off the plane. German writer returns. To the East. Which makes them look legitimate. They don’t care about his books. They just want him for show.”
“I know. They’ve asked some of the others. Even Brecht is reluctant and he—”
“They ask you?”
“No.” He glanced up, a slightly impish smile. “Maybe they don’t like my work. Too bourgeois.”
“You can’t let him do this. Do you know what it’s like there?”
“What do I say to him? He lives in one room. On money we give him. His friends. Each handout a humiliation. His wife committed suicide. For her, it was too much. And now they come to him. A professor. With a flat. His books. What do we offer instead?”
“Not a prison. At least here—”
“Reuben,” he said, using his full name as a kind of weight, “he doesn’t even know he’s here. He’s somewhere else, waiting. So let him go.”
“This isn’t going to make him popular with the State Department. Or you. Writing letters.”
“An act of friendship, not politics. Or isn’t that possible anymore? I thought that time was over. Well, it doesn’t matter for me. I don’t want to go back. The conscience of Germany? I don’t think they want that now. And maybe I don’t want them, either.”
Ben looked toward the other end of the patio. The man in the gray suit, paper down, was now sipping coffee. Just having lunch.
“A thousand apologies,” Kaltenbach said, joining them at the table. “And after so many kindnesses. I’m not myself these days.”
“Herr Kaltenbach,” Ben said, a sudden thought, “how did the offer come, from the university. A letter? It’s official?”
“Yes, yes. Hand delivered by the Soviet consul, all the way from San Francisco. So I would know it was genuine. You know, you don’t trust the mails for such an offer.”
“Ah, the consul,” Ben said. Someone who would certainly be watched everywhere, each contact another string to follow. “Well, I hope everything works out. Berlin—”
Kaltenbach nodded. “You don’t have to say. I’ve seen the pictures. A wreck. But look at me. So maybe we’ll suit each other.”
Stardust Page 13