The door opened and closed.
I smelled Joan's perfume. She sat down on the couch with me. She often watched my old movies with me; Shirley, never.
"ShaUIstop?"
"No. This is my favorite film." She felt for my hand and held it in her cool narrow hand. She moved closer and leaned against me; this woman I had once loved so much, whom I loved no longer.
"You're sure I'm not disturbing you, Peter?" She was especially considerate, especially loving, since she sadly watched our marriage deteriorate.
"Positive, Joan." I was considerate too.
"My plane does not leave for another three hours." I did not like the yellow dress she was wearing; it made her look older than she really was, simply because it was too youthful for her. Shirley could have worn it. But who could say that to a woman?
"I'll take you to the airport," I said. Joan had to go to New York for her aunt's funeral. An aunt who had left i her a lot of money. Joan was forever inheriting. I could not accompany her. Herbert Kostasch, the producer froni Hamburg, had sent a telegram which said, "... have sensational offer. Come Back practically certain." I was expecting him the following day.
Joan and I were sitting there, hand in hand. She probably thought how, since she loved me, she could save our marriage. I thought about how much I loved Shirley and that I could get a divorce if I made this film. And we both watched the twelve-year-old Peter Jordan, once the dar- 4 ling of the world.
There I escaped my frightening pursuers. There I starved in the orphanage. There I was with the mean Fagin who, with the help of a coat hung with little bells, taught me how to steal expertly. i
Joan said gently, "Do you know you've never changed?" | I turned down the sound. We both knew the dialogue by heart anyway. "You still have the humor, joy, thoughts of that boy up there on the screen. Those qualities distinguish you from all those other stupid, ruthless men."
Joan was beautifully groomed. Every hair in place; her make-up perfect. Everything was always perfect, I thought, exasperated. She was always right, now too. I had probably never grown up. Had I matured since making those movies? Not at all. Why did I always watch these old movies? Probably because I knew my best time had been when I was twelve years old.
"That is your charm, Peter, the little-boy appeal. That's what made me fall in love with you. My God, that was thirteen years ago; that's how long we have been living together..."
Thirteen years of doing nothing. Thirteen years of waiting. Thirteen years of whisky. Why did she have to bring all that up now?
"I don't know why I feel so sentimental. Maybe the plane is going to crash ..."
"Nonsense."
"No one knows when one's hour will come. We ... we were both so irritable lately. I wanted to apologize ..."
"I should do that."
Oliver Twist took part in a burglary. Oliver Twist was caught. Maybe I had then been more grown-up than today?
Joan murmured, "I'm so much older than you. I ought to be smarter and realize that even a great love cannot remain constant. I don't mind, really ... if only we stay together and grow old together ..."
Grow old?
Why old? I had not even been young yet! What was I, after all? A child? A man in his waning years?
"I had warned you then; I reminded you of how much older I was .. ." Old. Older. Old. What is she gettine at? "You were so wonderful! When I said, 'now it's all right but in fifteen years, when I have wrinkles .. .' do you remember what you replied?"
"What?"
"Then, we'll get you a face-lift!" She looked at me, her eyes moist. "That's what you said. All my friends were envious of me ..."
I had said that. Now she had had a face-lift. And even though the operation had made her face smooth once more, to me she had seemed more youthful before. I had loved her laughter. Now she could not laugh as before because of that damn operation. It always reminded me of my mother. It is not good if a woman reminds a man of his mother. What an s.o.b. I was.
"You were wonderful .. . and we'll be happy again ... an old married couple . . ." Old. Old. Old. Was she trying to hypnotize me using this word? "We have enough money..."
"You have!"
'*But, Peter! Whatever is mine is yours too."
I could not stand this any more. She had succeeded. I lost my temper. "My life is not finished! It can't be! If I thought so, I'd kill myself!"
**But why?"
**Because I have produced nothing, because I have wasted all those years! Because I detest myself, so much so I can't look in a mirror!"
She was startled. Haltingly, she said, "You have produced nothing? Millions of people have been stirred by your talented performances. Talent is a gift which only few people possess and which cannot last forever. You have done enough, enough for your life to be fulfilled."
"No! No! No!"
"Why are you shouting?"
"Because it isn't true. Look at the screen! That is not acting. I was a handsome boy, nothing else! Today I could act! But no one gives me the chance. That is the cause of my irritability; the reason why our marriage is not as it was, nothing else." Shouting that, I actually believed it. "And that's why I'm waiting for Kostasch, that's why I'm going to accept whatever offer he makes. I'd accept anything if only I could act again!"
She averted her head.
"What's the matter?"
"I'm afraid of this Kostasch. Don't be angry but I'm hoping the movie will never be made."
"Joan!" Excitedly I jumped up.
"I'm frightened. I'm afraid I'll lose you when you make movies again ..."
"So that's what it is! I was yours alone for all those thirteen years, confined in this goddamn house!"
"Good God, Peter!" In the dark, the beam of the projector separated and insulated us. We would never be together again. "I did not mean it that way!"
"Yes, you did."
"No, truthfully. I know who is destroying my marriage!"
"Who?"
"But I'm going to do something about it! She is not going to make me unhappy!"
"Who isn't?"
"Shirley!"
11
"Shkley?" Surprised I sat down. Was this a trap? Was I caught in it? What did Joan know? How much? Since when?
"Shkley is going to leave this house."
"But—"
"She'll be a cutter by Christmas. She will have to find herself a small apartment in Los Angeles."
"I don't understand . .."
"You know perfectly well!"
Did the trap close?
"I do?"
"You are too good, too indulgent. I kno^ what you put up with from Shirley." I was lucky it was dark. "For years you've put up with her outrageous behavior. You've ignored her hate."
"Well, you know, hate ..."
How quickly one can recover!
"Yes, hate. She hates you. And you were always good to her; you've always hoped she would change .. ."
"Well, yes."
"And because you loved me you've never mentioned it. I know. And you know too. She is the actual reason for our problems. She drove you out of the house. Into the bungalow. I can thank my daughter that we do not sleep together any more!"
"Joan, reaUy—*'
"You had to listen to every fight. All our arguments. And after she had gone to bed we argued. You couldn't stand it any longer. She is going to leave the house by Christmas! I am not going to sit by and watch a hysterical teenager destroy my marriage just because she could not forgive my marrying again."
I took Joan to the airport in Los Angeles. I parked the car. It was very hot. The setting sun colored the sky blood-red. We ordered a whisky in the Horizon Bar; then her flight was announced. She kissed me good-by.
"We'll be alone again by Christmas, darling. I promise."
"Shirley is not the reason. It's the movie, my work, I told you!"
"I don't believe you. It is Shirley." She kissed me again. Softly, so as not to be overheard by the bartender, she said, "I know you are
never going to leave me. But you are only thirty-seven. Perhaps ... maybe you want to have a few affairs with... with younger women."
I could not answer.
"Go ahead, Peter, get it out of your system! I swear I really don't mind! Find yourself a few pretty young things. I know you'll always come back to me," She stroked my hand. "You'll tell me everything, I know; and you'll breakfast with me; we'll listen to music, go on trips and to the theater. And together with me you'll grow old ..."
Then I watched her walk to the waiting plane. Again and again she turned and waved. I drank three whiskies one after the other. I was alone in the bar. The bartender did not know me. I could drink.
The Super Constellation began its take-off. I paid and went back to the parked car. It was now dusk. Sliding behind the wheel, warm naked arms encircled my neck; and fuU young lips found mine. Shirley's.
Shirley was sitting next to me, without make-up, breathless in skin-tight blue jeans and a sleeveless blouse.
She caressed my face, reached inside my shirt and caressed my chest. "I followed you in a taxi. I couldn't wait for you to return. I want to be with you every minute of these three days. Peter .. .*' Her green eyes were dark and veiled. "We*ll go straight home, okay?"
"Yes."
"I've dreamt of this. I've thought of nothing else for days..."
"I did too."
"Did it scare you very much when she suddenly spoke of me?"
"When?"
"This afternoon, when you were watching the movie."
"You were listening?"
"Yes."
"What did you hear?"
"Everything." Her voice was only a whisper. "Don't believe her, she says that just to rattle you ... so you'll stay with her ..." I could feel her young firm body through the blouse, through the tight pants as if she wore no clothes. "You are not a little big boy. For me you are the only man in the world. You know that there were others ... boys and so-called men ... men! It meant nothing with any of them! You . . . you rhade me a woman . . . only with you was it wonderful ... so heavenly, I will never be able to love any other man ... do you love me too? Tell me! Tell me!"
"I love you."
"She is always talking about getting old. You are not old! You are still young! She is afraid of Kostasch. I tell you, with Kostasch your life will begin! A new movie, a
new career..."
**Yes."
"She hopes nothing will come of it. I pray youll be working in a studio this year. Then let her send me away! We'll both go. Send me away!" Her voice shook. "That's aU she could ever think of! That holds no threat for me
any more! All my life she has sent me away, away from her!"
Shkley spoke the truth. She had been sent from one boarding school to another. Joan had always wanted to be free, especially after we were married.
"It sounds strange but I'm grateful that she never loved me, that she always pushed me from one place to another. Now my conscience does not torment me ..."
But she was tormented: by her sin, her faith, her God, I knew. She was the most tormented of the three of us; she was the youngest and the most vulnerable. She was—
"Good evening." A deep, somewhat mocking voice broke into my thoughts. For a moment, my mind was blank but then I found myself in the present.
The storm was howHng. My car was parked at the entrance of the Uttle cemetery of Reinbeck. It was a cold night for October. A man looked at me through the open window of the car.
It was my father.
12
Naturally it could not have been my father.
My father died in 1941 in New York of uremia. So it could not have been my father.
But it was a man who bore a very strong resemblance to him. When my father went off with a chorus girl and left my mother and me, I was four years old and he, thirty-eight. He was a very handsome, dashing man with sparkling black eyes, a flashing smile, beautiful teeth and a Uttle mustache. He liked to dress as a Frenchman and often wore a black beret. My father was always polite, flirted with the ladies and evaded any responsibility. It was my mother who had to take care of the three of us. How I admired my father then! He often brought candies
and cakes which my mother could not afford to buy. I remember my mother once saying, "You love him more than me because he brings you candy. I can only give you bread."
It was after my father left us that I tried to hate him. But in my innermost thoughts I adored him until he died. He did whatever he wanted to do. He was very charming. Even a few months before he died, he was still pursued by women. He could have had almost anyone he wanted—at fifty-six. He did not try to contact us when I became famous and mother and I were rich. We knew he was living poorly and yet he did not come to us. No, he was very proud.
He was at mother's funeral and stood to one side. Now I should have hated him even more, now that mother was dead. Hate him? On the contrary. Now that mother was dead I did not see any reason at all to hate him. I tried to talk with him but at that moment he showed more character than I; he turned abruptly and left.
I had no pride about him at all in the following years. Repeatedly, I invited him to live with me in the large house in Pacific Palisades. He refused. "I need my freedom, you know, Peter." I would have liked to impress him more than anyone else, with my money, possessions, and fame.
"My son is very lucky," he told people. And when one of them admired my talent, he answered smilingly, "A child is only a child, not an actor." I was told this story and have never forgotten it.
He must have thought of himself as a talented actor but he never talked about that. Whenever he came to visit me, he was always friendly, always charming, and always aloof. He never stayed long. I transferred money to his account in New York where he lived. He was now working for a radio station. We corresponded, we telephoned and we saw each other from time to time. Then he was always accompanied by a different girl. Each seemed to adore
him. He smiled; he took nothing and no one seriously. He called me "My dear boy," just as he would say "My poor wife." A young girl was with him when he died, not I who had long forgotten what he had done to my mother. From year to year my memory of him, a dark-haired man in shabby or expensive clothes but always looking like a gentleman, became more and more idealized.
With his casual elegance, his beret, reminding me of my father, this man looked at me through the car window and said, "Good evening." *"
His voice was soft and deep. Now I could understand why the voice had seemed so familiar on the telephone. I answered, "Good evening, Dr. Schauberg."
"May I see your passport?"
I gave it to him and he read it in the light of the dipped headlights. It was uncanny how much he resembled my father! He wore an old coat, the collar turned up.
"Fine. Now, what is it you want?"
"I can't tell you that out here on the street."
"You'll have to tell me here or not at all, my dear Mr. Jordan." ("My dear boy." My father again.)
"I'm ill. The day after tomorrow I am going to be examined by the doctor of an insurance company. Could you fix me up so I'll get through the examination?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Heart. Liver. Circulation."
"Are you a drinker, my dear Mr. Jordan?"
"Yes."
"Have you been examined by a doctor in Germany?"
"No," I said. "Only in the U.S."
"You're lying."
"It's the truth," I Ued.
He hesitated.
"Do you think I'm that crazy? To attempt an insurance fraud if a doctor had examined me here in Germany?"
That did it.
"The moment I have the slightest suspicion, I'll stop treating you."
"All right.*' Natasha Petrovna was leaving for Africa in two days. Or I would not have risked it.
"Do you have money?"
"Yes." I showed him a roll of bills. He walked around the car, his coat flying in the wind, his old trousers baggy, his shoes dirty. He
opened the car door and got in.
"Drive through the village. Then make a right. What's in the bag?"
"Whisky."
"How convenient. You don't mind if I help myself."
13
The high barbed wire fences had toppled. The barracks were without windows, doors, or roofs. The paths, overgrown with weeds. Against the moonlit sky, I saw a watchtower, broken flagpoles, a parade ground with cracked cement surfacing.
"This is where you live?"
"This is where I work, dear Mr. Jordan."
We had left the road at Reinbeck and had driven into the open country. For a while, we followed the rain-swollen, fast-flowing Elbe. I saw two roadsigns. curslack 6
KILOMETERS, said OnC, NEUENGAMME 17 KILOMETERS, the
other.
Now we had reached the broken entrance doors of a deserted camp.
"I have a room in the Goldenen Anker in Reinbeck," said Schauberg getting out of the car. "But I work here. I'm sure Mr. Gehzuweit told you what happens if one does not keep those things separate. We'll have to walk a little now; I'll carry the bag.''
Schauberg walked fast. I saw more and more barracks, groups of trees, a little lake, a dynamited air-raid shelter.
"And you're not afraid someone might surprise you at your . . . work?" '
"No one even comes here. The few farmers around fall silent went the camp is mentioned. They wouldn't come even if there were buried treasures."
"Why not?"
"They are superstitious. They say the dead walk here. Have you any idea how many are buried over there, near the woods? Thousands and thousands!" The barge whistle came to us from the nearby river. "There were camps outside almost every large German city. Another seventeen kilometers and you'll be at the concentration camp Neuengamme. But no one in our beautiful country knew of those camps. Even the Fuhrer himself did not know. Right outside our cities . . . And we? Concentration camp? Never heard of it. First we heard of them was in 1945. Everybody only did his duty ..."
We passed a second shelter and more and more paths and trees.
"The farmers here had a parish priest who upset them. He told them, unless the living did not honestly repent, the dead would not rest."
"And?"
"So today, fifteen years later, they are still afraid. This camp is twenty-three years old! The Nazis built it in 1936. The location is good. Near Hamburg and yet isolated. So in 1936, they sent Communists, socialists, Jehovah's Witnesses. Watch out, there is a bomb crater. Can you walk a little farther?"
The Berlin Connection Page 9