Sam’s expression turned suddenly dour.
“What?”
“Studio’s already paid Chalmers a hefty fee for the novel’s rights. Still, he’s fighting Brody’s every change tooth and nail. As the script writer, I’m caught in the middle.”
“So why did Brody invite him today?”
“He didn’t. Chalmers insisted. Why Brody agreed”—Sam looked heavenward, then he frowned—“Hmm…OWI demands could be a blessing for this particular picture.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the OWI rep wants major adjustments, there’ll be another rewrite. Script rewrites mean delays. The studio will have to cough up more money.”
I wasn’t following Sam. “But you said OWI demands might be good for the picture. Won’t Brody’s reputation suffer if he goes over budget?”
“You’re partly right. In Hollywood, you’re only as good as your last picture. Brody’s last was a box office flop. Meaning this time around the studio coffers weren’t opened as wide for him.” A sly smile played on Sam’s face.
“But?”
“If the OWI rep makes a fuss, Brody will be able to go to the studio for more bucks. He’s no rube—he’ll spread the funds around. Pump up the areas he thinks got shortchanged. Like casting, or location, or set design, costumes, special effects –”
My tongue snapped a ‘tsk’. “Sounds more like the plan of a desperate man than that of a highly regarded director.” I shook my head. “And how pathetic that someone at Brody’s level needs to scheme and manipulate to get the picture he wants made.”
Sam shrugged. “That’s war.”
Chapter Four
The studio dining room, a high-ceiling open space with linoleum flooring, Formica tables, brass chandeliers, lacquered columns and heavy drapery, was a strange mix of elegance and function. Clinking cutlery, glass and china, and the din of a hundred voices speaking at once, reverberated through the room. I trailed Sam through the crowd, evading waitresses in pink uniforms and caps darting among the diners.
We found a table along a bank of windows with a view of the studio lot. After ordering, Sam peppered me with questions about my background.
The pattern continued after our salads were served. We were up to my college years when Sam stopped his fork midway to his mouth. “A journalism major. That’s swell. We’re fellow writers.”
I shifted under the sudden intensity of his stare. His eyes glazed over and for the briefest moment I wondered, What is he thinking?
“What got you interested in writing?”
“Money.” I laughed, eager to lighten things up. “I was a PK, Preacher’s Kid. When I was ten, some of my Sunday school pals, probably thinking I had an inside track, asked for my help composing prayers the teacher made us write. I agreed, for a fee. Something got passed down in the genes, all right. I churned ’em out like a machine. Penny-a-Prayer Lewis, they called me.” I gave a demure Judy Garland smile. Sam chuckled. “Later on, I took up flying. But the writing bug stuck. It got me my job at Midland.”
With all the questions, I wasn’t getting much to eat. Jabbing my fork into my salad, I tried to grab a bite but Sam was faster. “When did you learn to fly?”
“Took CPT in college.”
He whistled. “Way to go! I heard only one woman for every ten men was accepted.”
When I’d applied, I hadn’t known about the odds. Or cared. The Civilian Pilot Training course, a government program to build a stable of pilots, was offered on college campuses before the war. “It was exactly what I’d been waiting for, the something that would catapult me out of the ordinary for good.”
“Tell me more about the promotional writing you did at Midland.”
“Hold on. I’m doing all the talking, and I’m starving here. What about your family? Where did you grow up? When did you know you wanted to be a writer? Where did you go to college?”
Sam held his hands up, traffic cop style. “Your journalist training is showing in spades. Enough.” He laughed and checked his watch. “We better get over to Brody’s office. How about we discuss me over dinner? Tomorrow night?”
My heartbeat quickened as his eyes met and held mine. Was “dinner” what the odd staring had been about earlier?
***
There was a minimum of small talk as we assembled in Lieutenant Colonel Derrick Brody’s office, a masculine space, its dark-paneled walls studded with glossy autographed movie star photos. Behind a polished mahogany desk, a credenza held a gold-framed photograph of Brody’s wife and their two daughters. His wife appeared rather plain, but the girls had sweet expressions and big bows tied in their hair. Nearby, several leather-bound books were sandwiched between brass roaring-lion bookends.
Sam had been right. The producer would not be joining us, but someone from production would be arriving shortly to take his place. After making the announcement, Brody introduced us to Wilma Wallace, OWI’s Hollywood representative and the reason behind the gathering.
Miss C, I thought, would have had mixed feelings about Wallace’s no-frills appearance. No hint of lipstick had touched her primly pursed lips. A tall stick figure of a woman, she apparently saw no reason to gloss over her other God-given features either. She wore no make-up at all and her dull ash-blonde hair—the shade hauntingly like mine pre-peroxide—had been yanked into a severe bun. Her sharp blue eyes were piercing, even behind the thick, horn rimmed glasses.
On the other hand, Miss C would have commended Wallace’s no-nonsense attire: a gray hopsack suit and a white blouse cinched at the neck with a brooch. The serious bearing followed through in the perfunctory handshake she gave me.
I was also introduced to the novelist Russell Chalmers. Looking scholarly in a tweed jacket, chino slacks, and a white shirt open at the neck, he had a casual appearance. Many men on the home front not in uniform felt they had to explain immediately, and Chalmers was 4-F due to an irregular heartbeat, he told me, shaking hands.
The session began once we were all squared away in leather chairs that circled a round conference table. Brody took charge with an ease suggesting he did so always, whether in uniform, as he was now, or not.
“Miss Lewis could use a quick recap of Adrift With The Enemy before we start. Let’s do it while we’re waiting for Wexler, agreed?”
Fine by me. Sam hadn’t given me much background on the story. In fact, I hadn’t heard the film’s title before this. The heads around the table bobbed in agreement. Brody took center stage. That there were problems with the script became apparent straight out of the chute.
“Story starts out in a small but swank Long Island community. A young naval officer, hailing from a family not so well-heeled as the rest, has recently come home on leave. An average Joe, with a uniform on, he’s able to impress the town rich girl. A relationship of sorts develops, and one night, intent on consummating their lust…”
Brody, as though remembering there were women in the room, paused, then cleared his throat. But not before he stole a glance at OWI’s Wallace. Was that a wink?
“Eh-hem. The young officer and gal take the family cruiser out on the ocean for a joy ride. They know better—not just because they’re sneaking the boat—but with the war going on, it’s damn stupid: U-boats have been picking off ships on the coast with regularity. Suddenly, with the two of ’em in the throes of passion, a violent storm comes up out of nowhere. The boat gets knocked about; the young officer, topside now, gets knocked out. His leg breaks. Compound fracture. Bone protruding through his pant leg.”
I grimaced and looked around. The others appeared at ease, but then they’d read the script.
Brody had been speaking in the rapid-fire style I’d observed this morning when we’d met. This afternoon, however, his energy level seemed to be percolating at an even higher rate. He stood and began pacing.
“The girl, bounced around pretty good, too, takes over, best she can. Time passes. Now and then, the young man rallies from his s
emiconscious state to give the gal various instructions. But the engine has been damaged; compass and radio destroyed. They’re completely helpless.
“Suddenly, from over the side, a hand grabs the railing. Gal’s not sure whether to scream or shout for joy. She rushes to the boat’s edge. A bedraggled man is laboring to climb aboard from a partly deflated rubber raft. Adrenaline rushing, she struggles to help him.”
Up to this point, I had been willing to suspend my belief. What happened next was overboard.
“The gal tries to get the man to tell her what happened, but he says nothing. His clothes are tattered and he’s weak. Renewed by his presence, she fixes broth for him in the damaged galley. Still, he doesn’t speak—it’s all been meaningful eye contact to this point. A little later, he’s mumbling in his sleep; she realizes the speech impairment has nothing to do with being injured at sea. He’s German!
“Now she’s frightened, but still desperate. Next day, wary, she stands by while he fixes the engine, then sets her boyfriend’s leg. When he gets them puttering toward shore—thanks to a small compass he has with him—she lets her guard down a little. She’s grateful. They become friendly, discussing this and that. He speaks broken English—” Brody tossed his voice my way.
Still pacing nonstop, but at an accelerated rate now, he went on. “The boyfriend thinks they’re flirting. He starts smoldering. Later, when he spots the Nazi consulting a secret map, he figures out they’re being navigated in a direction where the Nazi intends meeting up with an enemy ship.”
Brody paused, derailed by something on his desk. An oversized white envelope. He studied the writing on the outside then, using a letter opener, unsealed the flap. A 5x7 photograph wrapped in a pink satin ribbon slipped out, pinched between his fingertips. A quick concerned glance our way—directed more at Miss Wallace than anyone—and his focus returned to the photo and an accompanying letter, leaving the rest of us to stare wide-eyed at one another around the table. Sam moved to take up the slack.
“Uh, while the boyfriend is putting two and two together, the Nazi makes a move on the girl. He kisses her and she tries to push him away. But then, the girl begins responding…” Sam’s voice caught and he gave in to a sudden coughing jag.
The girl responds to the Nazi’s kiss? No wonder Sam was hacking uncontrollably. What a flight of fancy. No red-blooded American woman would do that! Nor, should any American movie portray that. Whose idea had it been? I glanced over at Brody.
Sam began again. “Eh-hem. The boyfriend makes his move. Adrenaline pounding, he separates the two and overpowers the Nazi. He shoves him overboard to the sharks.”
With a compound fracture? No wonder they called this place Dreamland!
A smile flickered on Sam’s lips, suggesting he saw the absurdity of the situation, too. But he finished up gamely. “The girl embraces her hero while denying she’d felt anything but revulsion for the Nazi. An Allied vessel appears on the horizon. Fade out.”
Brody, who’d rejoined us, began tapping the table with the letter opener he’d brought from his desk. He looked worried. He transferred the look to Wallace. Wallace was eying her pearl bracelet. She’d been fingering the lustrous beads and spinning the adornment around her wrist the entire time Sam had been talking. She glanced up. Brody glanced away.
“What’s eating you about the script, Miss Wallace?”
The question was admirably succinct, but stripped of any diplomacy. If Brody wanted to provoke her, as Sam had suggested earlier, he was off to a good start. My gaze swung her way.
Wallace patted the dog-eared script sitting on the table before her. “You’ve got a problem.” Her precise voice matched her prudish looks. “Several problems.”
Let him have it, Wilma!
“People living along the Atlantic seaboard are deeply concerned about the German subs operating in their coastal waters. And it’s not only the men and merchant ships we’re losing out there that has them worried. They’ve heard rumors that U-boats are casting out raft-loads of spies and saboteurs to infiltrate their communities.” Wilma gave her glasses a prim push. “The FBI has been disseminating information to eliminate their fears. This movie will stir up panic the government has been working to alleviate.”
Brody had been picking at his fingernails with the letter opener. Without looking up, he said, “Story is fact-based. The entire country knows that Nazis are landing incognito along the coast. They also know they’re being captured. Reports have been plastered across the front pages of newspapers, for Christ’s sake! So far, no War of the Worlds mass hysteria has broken out. Give our citizens credit for being reasonable and intelligent, why don’t you? It’s the Germans who follow blindly.”
Brody placed the opener on the table. “Besides, a reminder to Americans that fifth columnists are among us should be considered a service, not a disservice.”
Wallace adjusted her glasses again, and gave Brody a stern look. “I’m not finished.”
All eyes whisked to Wallace, but before she could continue, Russell Chalmers jumped in, his face livid.
“The girl in that…that so-called script is nothing but a floozy. A dimwit floozy! And the way the badly injured boyfriend recuperates enough to throw the German overboard…” Chalmers’ outstretched hand hit the table with a thwack. “…that’s way too unbelievable!”
Hurrah! My thoughts exactly.
“In the real story,” Chalmers said, pausing a moment to calm himself and to cast Sam a sidelong glance, “it’s clear the female character is only flirting with the German so he’ll drop his guard. She’s gotten her boyfriend, the naval officer, the man she adores, to remember a hidden gun. At the first possible moment, when the Nazi puts the moves on her, she shoots him between the eyes. She’s the one who dumps the Nazi to the sharks. Then, with instruction from her fella, she captains the boat to safety.”
Better yet! I cheered silently from the sidelines.
Brody tapped the arm of his chair for a few beats. “We’ve fought that battle, Russell. Moviegoers these days are predominantly women. Or, if a woman has a date, she picks the movie, the man pays. And ladies want romance, not some superhuman gal they can’t relate to.”
He leaned back in his chair and loosened the knot of his olive-drab tie. “She’s only a woman, for Christ’s sake. She can’t overpower a man, pilot a cabin cruiser.” The indignation on Wallace’s face and on mine, must have registered. “Sam, help me out here,” Brody pleaded.
Sam, head down, doodled with his pencil. To my relief, when he spoke, his position was sound.
“Chalmers has the right idea. The script relies too heavily on stereotype. Women are capable of a lot more than they’re given credit for. Besides, I think an audience—both men and women—would find it more romantic if she remained loyal to her boyfriend.” Sam tapped the pencil on the table. “We’re pushing the envelope on the female lead’s moral fiber already: stealing the boat, the love scene with the naval officer before the storm…”
Brody was rolling his shoulders trying to calm down, but his face was taut with irritation. “There you go on that nit-pick again. She wasn’t serious about the naval officer, couldn’t have been. Her family, her background…He’s no match for her, plain and simple.”
“Mr. Chalmers, Mr. Brody, Mr. Lorenz!” Wallace snapped the script with her finger as she uttered the names. “Calm yourselves.”
She waited with pursed lips until she had the men’s undivided attention. “Now that you’ve raised the morality issue, I’d like to discuss another of my problems. There’s no obvious justification for killing the German. Throughout the story, he’s helping the couple, appears to be saving them. The script doesn’t even make clear his ideologies. He could be fed up with Hitler and the Third Reich and intent on defecting, for all we know. You don’t kill a German just because he’s German.”
I gave Wallace a supportive nod. Well put! Plus, her tone had just the right touch of emotion behind it. Not whiny or judgm
ental, yet forceful enough to make her point. To let you know she intended standing by it.
“Why is it a Jap is a Jap, but we’re so careful to distinguish between good and bad Germans?”
I looked at Sam out of the corner of my eye. The question had come from him, but his voice had been so hushed no one could have heard it but me.
Wallace was on a roll. “Lastly, my biggest criticism is that the German is presented in a glorified way. Once he’s on board, he recovers quickly. By his actions, he’s shown as strong, capable, cool under pressure, even charming. So much so, the girl falls for him.” Wallace adjusted the brooch at her neck. “The U.S. officer, meantime, is shown as weak. It’s as though you want to substantiate the Nazi’s claim of a superior race.”
Hear, hear!
Brody started to object, but Wallace bounced a fist on the table. “You’ve got to change it. With slight editing, the Germans could turn Adrift With The Enemy into a Nazi propaganda piece!”
So much for Miss C’s theory that a woman wasn’t worth a grain of salt unless she wore make-up. I smiled. With my next breath, I recalled the propaganda piece we’d been exposed to on the castle set and grimaced.
Brody studied Wallace across the table. If I hadn’t been forewarned, I wouldn’t have noticed him fighting to suppress a smile. But Sam had been right. The imperceptible smile proved it. This was a game to Brody. He had Wallace right where he wanted: demanding changes which would translate into more money for his picture.
The trace of a smile disappeared and Brody pulled his face into a tight grimace, as though controlling his agitation with great physical effort. An actor couldn’t have done better. “Are you finished, Miss Wallace?”
At that moment, Brody’s secretary Myra entered the room, carrying a pot of tea. A neat youthful-looking woman with prematurely grey hair, she wore a demure dress in a lovely shade of blue. She also had an unfortunate overbite, reminiscent of Eleanor Roosevelt, causing her to lisp slightly when she talked.
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