We interrupted production and all members of the production, down to the last assistant, came to the funeral. Schauberg and Kathe had come too; they kept themselves in the background.
We were standing near the open grave and snow fell on us and the many flowers and wreaths.
Father Thomas spoke. "I am the Resurrection and the
Life. Whosoever believeth in Me shall live though he be dead..."
Father Thomas spoke and everybody heard what I had told Joan on that dreadful Saturday afternoon: "Shirley Bromfield often came to my church. To me she was not only a beUever but she was also my friend as I was, I believe, hers. She was good, honest and very sad. I don't know why. Probably all those who are honest and pure of heart are saddened by many things they witness in this worid.
"To many of us it may seem an incredible wrong, mean of God, to let such a person fall victim to a blind murderous accident; that Shirley Bromfield, before her father's eyes, bhnded by snow, ran in the path of a bus. Why was she, of all people, not allowed to live? Doesn't our world need people like her?
"I said that Shirley Bromfield had been sad. She never disclosed the reason. But could not her sadness have been too much for her? Is it not possible to imagine that, in time, the conflict which tormented her would have proven too much for her? Did God perhaps take her for that reason—to save her from further suffering, increased sadness, even more despair? We shall never know. But all of us who knew Shirley Bromfield know that our world is the poorer for her death. Let us pray, each according to his faith, each to his God, each alone with his thoughts. Let us pray in silence."
In the hush I heard a girl's sob and knew it came from Kathe. Joan, next to me, her hands folded, her face a mask, her lips compressed, did not cry.
While the coffin was lowered Father Thomas spoke the litany to its end.
"... receive the soul of this young girl and take it to God Almighty ..."
Good-by, Shirley.
"... May Christ Who called you, receive you, Shirley Bromfield and may angels lead you into paradise ..."
What shall I do without you, Shirley?
".. . Oh Lord, grant her eternal peace ..."
Peace. Not eternal. Just a Jittle peace, a little happiness. It was not granted to us, Shirley.
"... hear our prayers for her ..."
You will never again hear me. I am alone. There, in the depth of your grave you will become dust, dust again. What can I do with dust? Can I talk to dust, love dust, your dust, Shirley, you who died because of me?
"... Lord, forgive any who have sinned against her . . ."
Yes, Lord, if You are, forgive me, please. No, no, I know You cannot forgive me. No one could.
"... your mercy and love, oh Lord. Amen."
"Amen," said Joan next to me.
"Amen," said the others.
I was silent.
Someone handed me a shovel full of earth and blindly I dropped it down into the grave. The soil sent up an echo as it struck the coffin. I handed the shovel to Joan and she too went through the brief ritual. Others followed. They passed by us, speaking words of sympathy. Joan's face remained a mask.
It was cold. It grew dark. People were leaving. I was trying to assist Joan as we were leaving but she said, "I can walk alone." She did not speak until we were driving back toward the city. Then she said, "It is my fault."
"What are you saying?"
"The priest said she had been so sad. She was sad because of me."
"Joan! You got along so well! You were so happy about that!"
"Shirlev pretended."
"She did what?"
"To please me she pretended that she had foreotten all I did to her when she was a child . . . that I sent her away ... to boarding schools ... to camps . . . away ... I was never a mother to her, Peter, never! And you, you were
398 .
never a father to her. We only always thought of ourselves."
I said nothing.
"We thought she had fallen in love here in Hamburg. Instead of that she was looking for refuge with this priest—in her sadness, her despair. When did she tell you?"
"On ... on the day she died." I went on to lie very convincingly. "She told me to pick her up at Father Thomas's. She was going to talk to both of us that afternoon."
"What about?"
"I don't know. She only said about us," I lied. It was so easy to He.
"About us! That means about me! How can I live with this, Peter?"
You? I thought how could I, and answered, "It is a terrible thing to say, but today is the most difficult day. Each day following wiU lessen our distress and thoughts of Shirley."
"She asked you to meet her, not me. She always trusted you more than me, her mother."
"Joan! Please, Joan!"
"It was perfectly natural. You were nicer to her, more sincere. Even though she hated you for so long you showed more understanding for her. You never lost your patience." Abruptly she said, "I wonder if this young cutter could tell us anything else?'*
"Hennessy? No, I already spoke to him. He knows nothing. Neither does his brother, the priest."
I had spoken to Hennessy and Father Thomas and we had agreed that it would be best, especially for Joan, if no one knew anything: nothing of the attack I had made on Hennessy, nothing of the scene outside the priest's house, nothing of my behavior, of my jealousy or the talk in the ice cream parlor. Father Thomas had said, "You have to go on living. You have to come to terms with all that has
happened, all I can only surmise. I shall never coerce or entreat you. But then I shall never be able to help you either."
I didn't want him to. He couldn't help me. No one could.
Joan retained her composure until we reached the ho^ tel. Then she broke down. She went through a crying fit and then suffered a heart attack. I summoned a doctor who gave her injections.
"She will sleep until tomorrow morning," he told me.
Schauberg, upstairs in his room, gave me an injection.
"Don't think about it."
"But I do. I shall always think about it. Always."
"You must think of your movie."
"I can't."
"You are in a very poor state of health. Very poor indeed. You have another seven days of shooting to go through."
"All I can do is think of how everything happened. How it had to happen."
"Would it make you feel any better to tell me about it? I'll be elad to listen. I am—I mean, I was a doctor. Many a time T have listened to unhappy people."
"I can't tell you. Schauberc. Not you."
He looked at me searchingly and finally murmured, "But perhaps . . .
.. . that lady doctor?"
I told Natasha. We had crossed the Lombardsbriicke and walked past snow-covered gardens to. the Schwanen-wik.
"He knows of me?"
"He doesn't know your name. He saw that someone
had given me an injection. When I told him that a doctor had given it to me he guessed immediately that the doctor had been a woman. He—"
"Yes?"
"He thought that the woman doctor might love me. That is why he thought the doctor would not betray me. Consequently he was safe also."
Natasha did not reply and we walked in silence through the snow.
"How is your wife?"
"She will sleep until tomorrow morning."
"Shirley and you were lovers, weren't you?"
"Yes, Natasha," I said, "we were lovers." jl She was silent and looked straight ahead.
"I was going to divorce Joan and marry Shirley. I led her astray. I was not the first man in her life but I was her first true love ... The way Wanda was my first true love..."
"Who is Wanda?"
"The truth, I was going to tell you." ' "Tell me the truth, Peter."
I stood still.
"What is it?"
"You ... for the first time you called me Peter."
"Yes, Peter," answered Natasha.
And we continued walking thro
ueh the snow.
"Wanda Norden is dead," I said. "I am as guilty of her death as I'm guilty of Shirley's. It is a terrible story. Do you still want—"
"Yes," said Natasha. "I still want to hear."
"This is not the first time that I am in Germany, Natasha ..."
"You told me that you came over here as a soldier."
"That was the second time. The first time I came in 1938."
"Whv?"
"My studio sent me on trips. My career as a child star
was finished. I was not making any new films so they quickly capitalized on the old ones. I was the living advertisement. They called me 'Ambassador of Good Will': 'Ambassador of Good Business' I should have been j called! I traveled all over Europe and in January, 1938, I came to Germany. I had once been very popular here ..." j "I know." I
"The Nazis at that time were still seeking international I sympathies—^they wanted to show their people that foreign countries too were admiring them. And so I appeared in movie theaters aU over Germany. In March I came to Berlin. It was the last stop of my European trip. I could have gone home. But I stayed." "Did you like it so well?"
"The UFA wanted me to play in a movie. They made me an offer. They didn't care that I had grown! The UFA—the Ministry of Propaganda of course—expected a German Peter Jordan film to be a prestigious success. They offered me the best contract I had ever had." "How old were you then?" "Almost seventeen." "And alone in BerHn?"
"The staff my studio had sent to accompany me on my trips returned to the States. Yes, I was alone. I had a suite in the Hotel Adlon. I drove a white Bentley. I lived like the young millionaire I was at that time. I was in no hurry. Hollywood was not waiting for me. The house in Pacific PaUsades still reminded me strongly of my poor dead mother. And besides— " "And you met Wanda." "Yes."
"She was a Berliner?"
"Yes. Nineteen years old. Almost two years older than I. She had glowing auburn hair, green eyes, a pale, delicate complexion. She looked . . . looked very much like a girl who had not yet even been bom. Shirley!"
We were walking along the other side of the Alster
now. It had become colder and our shoes crunched the snow.
"I ... I was a very shy boy in spite of my wealth, in spite of my fame—perhaps because of it. I met Wanda for the first time at a race on the Avus. I overcame my shyness and spoke to her. She left me standing there. I followed her in my car and found out that she lived in a lovely old villa in the Grunewald. I spoke to her again. She was more friendly this time. We made a date. She said that she had thought me arrogant, a show-off who thought girls would fall all over him merely because he was Peter Jordan. Strange that I gave that impression . . ."
"The impression changed?"
"Yes. We fell in love. Her parents invited me. Her father, a melancholy man, was a professor of physics. In May . .. Wanda and I became lovers. That is to say: She seduced me. She was the second woman I knew. The first one too had seduced me the year before—Constance, the wife of an unemployed Hollywood director. But with Constance it had been an infatuation. With Wanda it became love. My first true love . ..
It was a wonderful summer! Day after day the sun shone. We drove to the Wannsee. We lay in the bulrushes. We loved one another.
We loved each other in our boat, in the lakeside hut, in the Adlon. We were crazy abcftit each other. Wanda was as beautiful as she was experienced and passionate. I was as passionate as I was inexperienced. But she proved to be an excellent teacher.
I had my contract. I had money. As an American I was treated with respect by everyone.
Wanda and I went everywhere together. I was as proud
of her as any young man could be of his first love. We went to the most exclusive restaurants, nightclubs and theaters.
Wanda had finished school. She had a natural talent for languages and science but did not attend the university. In her child-like voice, which contrasted strangely with her womanly appearance, she said, "I don't know what I'm going to do. I have to think about it. Papa says we might go to England where his brother lives."
Wanda's father worked at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. He always seemed troubled and melancholy. During the summer months I noticed during my visits to the villa that the bookshelves became empty, furniture disappeared, carpets, tapestries and woodcarvings. "We'll probably go to England after all," said Wanda. And her father said to both of us, "Why don't you stay home a little more. Don't keep going out so much."
"Why not, Papa?"
"You know why."
Wanda shrugged her shoulders. "With Peter I can go wherever I want."
I did not understand this conversation at that time. As I told you, Natasha, I was seventeen years old, a guest in Germany and I did not know what was going on. The UFA had attached a Mr. Hintze-Schon to me. He was a slight, forever embarrassed man whose job seemed to be to anticipate my wishes, to reassure me when the script was not progressing so weU, to arrange press conferences and to see to it that my photo appeared frequently in the newspapers—^foreign papers too. (Peter Jordan, America's Famous ChUd Star Enjoying Himself at Schloss Mar-quart. "I love it here in Germany. I don't ever want to leave!")
And it was Hintze-Schon who one day opened my eyes. "Please don't misunderstand me, Mr. Jordan, we are happy to have you here. We are not telling you what to
do. How could we? But between us, as a friend, I would like to point out something to you . . ."
"Please do."
"This Fraulein Wanda Norden ..."
"Yes?"
"She is Jewish. Didn't you know that?"
"No. What about it?"
"Nothing, nothing! I only wished to inform you, Mr. Jordan, as your friend. You can associate with whom you wish."
I mentioned this talk at Professor Norden's!
"You see, Papa!" Wanda exulted. "They don't dare. Peter is too valuable for their propaganda. And even without Peter I keep telling you: they won't dare harm us! They need you—or you wouldn't be classified any more!"
"Your father is classified?"
"He is classified as a Jew essential to an organization committed to total war," Wanda explained, quite matter-of-fact. "A lot of Jews are classified like that. Father is a physicist. In 1933 he was working on a secret project. That's why they're keeping him."
"For how much longer?" Professor Norden asked softly.
"If things become worse we'll just go to England!"
"It won't get worse," I said.
"No? You don't think so?" asked Norden and smiled sadly.
"At least not for as long as I'm here! Just judging by myself, and not even taking the importance of your work into consideration, I must say I agree with Wanda. I really am a very good advertisement for them. Besides, I don't really think that anything serious will happen again. There has been no repetition of brutahties against Jews such as those of a few years ago."
At the end of October the script had finally been completed.
Embarrassed as usual, Hintze-Schon explamed why it had taken so long. "Speaking confidentially, as your friend: The author was racially intolerable. We didn't want to trouble you with that problem. You do like the script, don't you?"
"Very much."
"You see! The new Aryan author is really much better!"
"What happened to the other one?'*
"I beUeve he went to Paris. We don't want to create any difficulties for anyone who does not wish to remain here."
On November first, 1938, Mrs. Norden went to visit her sister in Zurich. Since she said she would return in a few days it seemed strange to me that she kissed me good-by. She had never kissed me before.
On November ninth Wanda and I ate out. She felt tired and I took her home early. The streets were unusually crowded as I drove to my hotel that night. Trucks with ^ shouting SA men were everywhere. I heard blatant singing too. At Kurfiirstendamm I saw men breaking the show windows of a department store. I heard the clanging of fire engines. Above the city the sky was red.<
br />
The porters at the Adlon merely shrugged their shoul- ' ders when I asked them if they knew what was going on in the city. They seemed embarrassed as they looked ' away. A man, breathless, came running into the hotel crying, "They are smashing the windows of Jewish stores! They're setting fire to the synagogues! The Friedrich-strasse is covered with glass ..."
Two men in the uniform of the SA who had been sitting in the foyer rose and walked toward the man. He fell silent as between them they led him out.
Hurriedly, I found a telephone booth and dialed Wanda's number. There was no answer. I ran out to my car. The sky was red in several places. I heard the sounds of shouting and bellowing song, barking of orders, whistling, the ringing of fire engines, the breaking of glass.
Just as I was getting into my car a taxi stopped and Wanda got out limping. She was still in the ocelot coat she had worn earher. While she was paying the driver I hurried to her.
"Wanda!"
She wheeled, frightened—and then she was in my arms, clinging, sobbing so that I could not understand what she was saying. I pulled her into the shadow of a tree. Trucks full of Nazis ready for action came rolling through the Brandenburg Gate. They were noisily singing.
Anxious people on the sidewalks were staring at them.
"What happened?"
"They ... they came ..."
"Where is your father?"
"Professor Hahn warned him ... he didn't even come home..."
More trucks. The Horst Wessel song.
"Papa called ... he told Franz to tell me that he had to leave immediately ... I ... I was to try to come to you ..." Franz was their servant.
Columns of marchers. The flares of torches.
". . . SA marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt. . ."
"Before I had time to do anything ... to pack a bag ... to take out a single dress thev had alreadv arrived . . ."
". . . Kameraden, die Rotfront and Reaktion erschos-sen . . ."
"They broke the windows . . . they came running throuf^h the garden . . . Judenschweine . . . Juden-schweine . . ."
".. . marschier'n im Geist in unseren Reihen mit..."
"Franz delayed them. I climbed out of the kitchen window . .. when I scaled the fence I broke the heel..." She began to cry again and said—"I'll never forget it— ... off my prettiest shoes ... They were made especially for me ... by Breitsprecher ... to go with my dress ..." She was stiU wearing the black silk dress she had worn when we had been together earlier.
The Berlin Connection Page 33