The final book came as a mild surprise: a second copy of Beecher, this one so new its cover creaked. A gift not yet presented to its recipient, the inscription inside written in purple ink with impudent flair.
Felix,
It worked for me.
Jens
As I repacked the box’s contents, some of Hiram Beecher’s wisdom came back to me. The sound of a person’s own name rings like a bell in their ears, the purest note they’ll ever hear.
“Mrs. Fuchs, you’ve been a tremendous help.”
“No bother,” she said crisply.
“Thank you for offering to put me in touch with Jens. He’s a talented man, and he wouldn’t be able to succeed without people like you.”
A tremor of pride ran through her body. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Mrs. Fuchs. All artists need patrons, and not all patrons provide money. Some simply leave a door open.” I paused. “I heard Jens may have gone to Mexico for a new visa. Do you think that’s possible?”
“He never mentioned it to me. I suppose it is.”
I nodded as if she’d said something profound, then wrote down my home telephone number and took two dollars from my purse. “When you hear from Jens, Mrs. Fuchs, could you do me the great favor of letting me know at once?”
“Certainly.” She glanced at the paper I’d handed her. “Right away, Miss Frost. Lillian.”
Ol’ Hiram was right. It did sound good.
7
THE KEY TO one’s wardrobe for a Sunday salon by the shore, Edith would advise, was the hat. A maroon sailor, say, boasting enough brim to spare my face the ravages of the sun, topping a gray jersey dress with a wide maroon belt.
Rogers, naturally, didn’t compliment my choices when he picked me up in Addison’s car. Well, I’d show him.
“Our hostess is Salka Viertel,” I babbled to the back of his neck. “She used to be an actress, but now she writes scripts. Exclusively for Greta Garbo. She wrote Queen Christina, can you imagine? They say if you want Garbo in your picture, you’ve got to go through Salka. She holds these get-togethers every Sunday for artists coming from Europe. Composers, novelists, intellectuals, all discussing the state of the world. A bit highbrow for me. I’ll be in over my head unless this week’s Your Hit Parade comes up. It’d be swell if someone I’ve heard of is there. Garbo’s too much to ask, but fingers crossed for Charlie Chaplin. He sometimes stops by.”
I was so busy arguing that Fredric March, who’d played Vronsky to Garbo’s Anna Karenina, would make a superior Chopin to Spencer Tracy that I didn’t realize the Cadillac had slowed to a stop outside a white English-style house. Honeysuckle ran riot on the surrounding fence, and two lofty pine trees sheltered the front door. I couldn’t see the ocean from where I sat but I could smell it, sense it on my skin, feel it soothing my blood. Even from the car the house seemed a sanctuary, the sort of home you would strive to be worthy of, a reward for a life well and fully lived.
“You’re out of luck.” Rogers addressed the windshield. “I seen Chaplin’s car before. It ain’t here.”
* * *
“WE HEARD SUCH foolishness about living in Santa Monica. ‘You will become rheumatic, suffer bronchitis and gout. Seal up your windows to spare yourself disease.’ But who would deny themselves this?” Salka Viertel raised her hands to take in the totality of her abode. The living room with its fire crackling in the hearth, the view of the hills rising from Santa Monica Canyon, and everywhere the enticing scent of paprika. Simply agreeing with her was scarcely sufficient. I wanted to collapse into her arms and never leave.
A handsome, solidly built woman of about fifty, she had reddish hair and perceptive gray eyes. Knowing the value of plumage, she’d accessorized a simple brown dress with a vivid blue scarf guaranteed to draw attention as she darted about tending to her guests. It felt like a privilege to have her to myself for a few moments. I gushed compliments about the house then thanked her for welcoming me on Marlene’s behalf. At the mention of the actress’s name, Salka pulled me closer, her eyes sweeping the room.
“Careful when invoking dear Dushka.” Her accent endowed every word with intrigue. “Greta may appear at any moment, and she and our mutual friend have only the most fragile détente. Out of necessity, my loyalty is to Greta.”
“I understand.” Organizing Addison’s parties had taught me Hollywood relationships were like icebergs: only fractions of them were visible, the most treacherous parts lying beneath the surface.
“Dushka and I are, of course, close. I knew her first, in fact. We acted together in Max Reinhardt’s company a lifetime ago. Even then, she had her … dramatic temperament. It is on full display, I fear, in her concern over young Mr. Lohse.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Not as well as I should, because he requires no special care from me. Jens comes in, helps himself to some food, takes a seat at the piano if no one is already there, then plays and chats with whoever happens along. He’s very…” She glanced at the ceiling while she groped for a word. She unconsciously patted my forearm as she did so, the maternal gesture warming my heart. “Jens is self-reliant, which is why he will fare well in this new country. So many of my guests still struggle with the language, the lack of career opportunities. One of Vienna’s finest surgeons—he’s here, I’ll introduce you—now supports himself as a masseur. And every week brings more newcomers. I never need worry about Jens. He’s always at the piano, making someone laugh.” She paused. “A strange boy, though.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t want to speak ill of him. He has such talent. He can always conjure up a tune to make a recent arrival feel at home. He knows every folk song in Europe. And the way he teaches himself to master new pieces, scurrying around with that enormous book of his. Like an encyclopedia. He’ll play anywhere he can reach in that wretched roadster. It’s his worst feature, that car.” She cocked her head, again noticing an unflattering pigment in the portrait she’d painted. “That, and he can be aggressive about getting work. He’s a pushy sort, forever pinning you down about your plans, exploiting every person he meets.”
“Sounds very American.”
“It does, doesn’t it? I wish he were here, so I could speak with him.”
“Where do you think he went?”
“I don’t think he went anywhere. I’ve gone longer than this without seeing him. Dushka is the one who insists the poor boy has vanished.” Salka’s smile showed near-infinite reserves of compassion. “I understand how Dushka views life. She is a star. When someone is drawn into her orbit, she believes only a cataclysm can tear them loose. My attitude is different. The cataclysm is happening now, as we sit by this lovely fire. People are constantly being cast adrift. The best you can do is offer safe harbor. Jens floats in, and he floats out.”
I pictured Jens, bobbing like a cork on the open sea, clinging to his book of music. “Is it possible he went to Mexico to secure a visa?”
“Absolutely, if his visitor’s permit had expired. Mein Gott, I don’t envy him the trip. We did it ourselves, my husband, Berthold, and our boys. We stayed at an ostentatious hotel Jack Dempsey built in Ensenada, with a casino attached. America’s answer to Monte Carlo. The Depression ended that dream. We were the only guests! After three days we had claustrophobia. We were grateful to cross the border again.”
“And as for the theory the Nazis played a role in Jens’s alleged disappearance—”
“Preposterous. Make no mistake: people are disappearing all over Europe because of them. They are ruthless. Jens knows it, as do all people with their eyes open. Jens is keenly aware of what is happening and speaks out against the Nazis. But the idea the Reich even knows who he is?” The noise of dismissal she made left no room for argument. “My fervent hope is you have wasted a trip, and Jens comes through that door with a tale to tell. But you are welcome to stay. Ask the others about Jens.”
Recalling the inscribed book Jens left behin
d, I said, “I will. Is Felix here?”
“Which Felix? I know several. You must mean Felix Auerbach, the composer. I haven’t seen him or his wife, Marthe, today, but it’s early yet. Help yourself to food. Dinner will be later, but for now there is apfelstrudel and gugelhupf in the kitchen.”
“That first one sounds like apple strudel,” I said. “And if the second is anything like that, you’ll find it hard to get rid of me.”
* * *
MUSIC FLOWED FROM every room, spilling into the yard where it accompanied the racket from a pitched Ping-Pong match. Talk was abundant but polyglot, the exchanges in English delivered in accents so strong as to be borderline indecipherable. I received my share of curious, welcoming smiles, but my forays into conversation died aborning. I was too much an obvious interloper. After a second pass through the house for another slice of gugelhupf, which turned out to be a heavenly ring-shaped coffee cake, I retreated to Salka’s garden to reassess.
A defunct incinerator hid behind a lilac bush that had bloomed its last. I contemplated it while gorging on gugelhupf, so I didn’t hear the man as he approached.
“This bush. It knows the fire is near, so it surrenders. Everywhere there is death.”
Oh, brother. All the rays of sunshine came to me. The man’s appearance bolstered my initial impression. He wore rough corduroy trousers and a black turtleneck despite the sun, and I pegged his weight at 90 percent eyebrow hair. His hunched posture channeled a lifetime of disappointment directly to his face.
“There’s always hope,” I said. “Maybe it’ll come roaring back.”
“This is what Salka thinks. You are American, ja?”
“Yes. Lillian Frost. Glad to know you.”
“Gustav Ruehl.” He stated his name as if expecting me to recognize it.
“How do you know Salka?”
“The way everyone does. Exile.”
“What is it you do?”
“I am a writer.”
“Anything I might have read?”
“I do not recite my curriculum vitae on Sundays. Others here should be known to you. Mostly composers today.” He reeled off a roster of all-stars in a sport I didn’t follow, stabbing a finger at each man as if casting them out. “Arnold Schoenberg. Bronislau Kaper. Ernst Toch.” The rest he dismissed with a wave.
What modern music needs, I thought, is a series of baseball-like cards. Picture on the front, vital statistics on the back. Wrote nine symphonies. Conducts with his left hand. “There is a composer I was hoping to meet. Jens Lohse.”
“He is not a composer. He writes musical doggerel.” Ruehl peered at me. “Who are you, exactly?”
“A friend of Salka’s. Not an exile, but—”
“Not a truth-teller, either. Why are you here?”
I fumbled for a reply. Ruehl pounced on my weakness. “Why are you looking for this Lohse? Perhaps you work with the men who wait outside watching the house.”
“Men outside? I don’t understand.”
“And now you play the innocent!” Heads turned as Ruehl’s belligerence grew. “Why are you asking questions? Does Salka know you do this? She abides this intrusion?”
I sputtered, desperate to silence him. My unlikely savior was a sturdy brunette who looked all-American but shushed Ruehl in fluent German. Ruehl started to protest, then tossed up his hands and turned to cast blame at the dormant lilac bush. The brunette, dressed for the office in a brown-and-maize suit, led me away from him and toward Salka’s house. “Sorry about that. We don’t usually let Gustav talk to people until their third or fourth visit.”
“I think he’s upset I haven’t read his book.”
“Nobody here has. They all own it, though.” She introduced herself as Gretchen Corday. “Gustav is one of the worst bei-unskis. They mainly speak German to other Germans about Germany. What matters to them is that you’re bei uns. With us.”
“You don’t sound like a bei-unski.”
“I’m something even rarer. California born and bred. My mother’s from Stuttgart, though, so I have an in with Salka and her friends. It also helps I work in pictures. I’m a secretary over at Lodestar. Did I hear you asking about Jens Lohse?”
“I’m looking for him about a job. I gather he’s not here.”
“No, he isn’t.” Gretchen’s voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a well.
“Have you seen him lately?”
“Not in about two weeks. And our paths cross pretty frequently.” Her manner gave me the distinct idea Gretchen made sure of that; she was clearly carrying a torch for the tunesmith, and was at Salka’s hoping to encounter him.
“Someone said he went to Mexico to clear up immigration trouble.”
“That’s not true. If he was taking that trip, he’d have gotten advice here first. Salka and half her guests went to Mexico for the same reason. They could have told him what to expect. Jens never makes a move without getting the lay of the land.”
“Do you know where he’s currently living?”
“Anywhere he can rest his head, I’m afraid. Funds are tight so he’s been staying with friends, sleeping on sofas.” The shadow as we entered the house cloaked Gretchen’s face as she said, “I put him up a time or two myself.”
“I’ve seen him. Lucky you.” I hated to pry, but couldn’t think of another way to keep her talking. “Does he have a girlfriend? He was drawing interest when he played for my boss.”
“Oh?” A pause, then, “Was she blond?”
“She could have been. Do you know her?”
“Not really. But the last time Jens stayed with me, I found a few blond hairs on his coat. He was out of sorts, so I asked if he’d quarreled with his little blonde. It must have struck a nerve, because he was gone first thing the next morning.”
But he’d still slept on her sofa, I noted. Dietrich’s conviction that Jens was missing had received its first validation. Time to test Dushka’s other theory. “Is Jens a bei-unski? How does he feel about what’s happening in Austria?”
“How do you think he feels? His country’s been taken away. Every spare minute he and I volunteer at the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League. Pitching in around the office, doing whatever we can. Jens is very passionate about it.” Aware of how she’d described her would-be beloved, Gretchen backtracked. “But not as passionate as he is about music. He wants to score pictures at the studios and plans on studying composition. He’s written such wonderful songs. Do you know ‘The Trouble with Sin’?”
“I don’t, sadly. I’d love to hear it.”
After some internal debate, Gretchen took my arm again. She directed me to a room with a baby grand piano and no visitors. Once she closed the door firmly, she took her place at the ivories. “I won’t do it justice. I have absolutely no training. But I love to play this one.” She closed her eyes as if in prayer, hands suspended over the keys. She brought them down to peck out the melody, talk-singing the verses before belting out in a choir-loft alto.
In Paradise, the story goes
Two strangers met without their clothes
A circumstance they didn’t mind at all
But gratis of a certain snake
They came to realize their mistake
And fled when the Almighty paid a call
And there we have the sinner’s plight
When you give in and take a bite
Forbidden fruit will lead you to a fall
The press of lips, the gift of sable
The gin that lands you ’neath the table
Feel so nice, but there’s a price
That’s the trouble with sin
The fare is steep for each transgression
That’s how you know you’ve learned your lesson
Which you dismiss with the next kiss
That’s the trouble with sin
She wasn’t blushing but strangely I was, her little-girl-lost performance adding spice to the saucy lyrics. “There’s more,” Gretchen said, “but Jens—”
The door
burst open, a seething Gustav Ruehl beyond. “I knew it!” he cried. “Why you do play this Weimar nonsense for an outsider?”
Gretchen’s German wouldn’t allay his wrath this time. Ruehl crooked a crooked finger at me. “I demand to know why you are here! You were sent to put us under scrutiny, ja? You are with those men in hats outside who watch us day and night. Land of the brave, home of the free, yet government eyes always on us. It is Germany all over again! The smiling faces do not fool me! I insist—”
Salka Viertel’s voice, calming but firm, preceded her into the room. She scolded Ruehl, who muttered in response after a final poisonous glance my way. Salka beckoned to Gretchen, who reluctantly led Ruehl from the room. Salka turned to me, pity in her eyes. “Poor Gustav hasn’t eaten. You’ve caused something of an uproar, I fear.”
“I didn’t intend to. Perhaps I should go.”
Her nod confirmed that was the wisest course of action. From one of the bookshelves she plucked a leather-bound volume called The Prophet’s Holiday. “Gustav’s masterwork,” she said, pressing it into my hands. “I want you to have a better sense of him. Bring it back on your next visit.”
* * *
ROGERS SLOUCHED BEHIND the wheel, acknowledging my return to Addy’s Caddy with the merest movement of his head. “Have you noticed anyone watching the house?” I asked. “Possibly men with hats?”
He didn’t want to answer, but I’d piqued his interest. “Guy in the blue Ford up the street there has been eyeing the place.”
“He’s wearing a hat, too. He might be a government man. Let’s see what he does when we leave.”
What he did was pull out after us. Rogers drove to the road running parallel to the shoreline, the Ford remaining a short distance behind. When there was a break in traffic, Rogers swung around in a sudden, provocative U-turn. The man in the Ford, caught off-guard, glanced down at his dashboard as we roared past. He made no attempt to pursue us.
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