by Sam Toperoff
Hammett said, “Easy, Myra, there’s always exhumation.”
“Exhume what, his ashes? Phil had Jerry cremated. His old friend, Jerry. His old tennis partner. For whose murder the coroner has found, quote, no reason whatsoever to suspect foul play, unquote. So much for Jewish tradition.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm, indeed.” Myra didn’t sound drugged anymore.
“When did all this happen?”
“Weeks ago. I’ve been busy as hell too. But, yes, it’s my fault. I left all the Waxman stuff to him. I just got caught up with everything else that’s happened. I should say everything just got caught up with me. I can’t believe the things he’s done. He put the money that was raised to find out what really happened to Jerry Waxman—some $17,000—into his own personal account. Stole it, Dash. Then three days ago he was named president of the Screen Writers Association, and you know what a phony front organization that is. And they’re paying him a fortune. How come you don’t know? Don’t you get The Reporter?”
“Myra, I’m in New York writing.”
“Still.” She sighed and brought her voice back up. “Then I check and see he’s cleaned out our joint account. We were going to do Europe next summer.” She was unsteady again. “He’s taken the sports car. When I was away on location, he packed his fucking bags and left. Leaving was the only good thing in the whole deal. He’s not going to get away with this, is he Dash?”
Sounded like he already had. “That’s complicated, Myra. I think the Waxman case is pretty well shot. But let me think about it. As for the money and your wayward husband …”
“Ex-husband.”
“… there are still some options. I have to think about it. But do this immediately. Call Peter Carey. He’s a lawyer and a private investigator. First-class guy. Mention my name. Give him my number. He owes me, so we should be able to work something out.”
“Dash, I’d much rather you …”
“Of course you would, dear. I simply can’t right now. I’ll be on it with Carey. Promise. He’ll do everything I would do. And I’ll do everything I can from here until Lilly gets back.”
“That’s when?”
“Your guess … Been calling and calling. Can’t get through.”
“Can he really get away with all this, Dash?”
“Maybe not all of it, Myra.”
This scoundrel turned rat was one clever son of a bitch. Phil Edmunds was the kind of guy Hammett really despised, a cunning sneak and a coward who took enormous advantage of people’s good opinions and misreadings of his character. He was the same devious prick when he was drinking to Lilly’s success and Myra’s superb Stroganoff as when he was getting Jerry Waxman cremated to set himself up.
Myra’s phone call three nights later was worse. Personally. She’d been drinking. “They canned me,” was how she began the conversation. “The best writer in the place—well, debatably anyway—and they just cut me loose. After I …”
Hammett whistled into the phone.
“You think this is his doing?”
“Probably so. He’s really got some leverage with important people. I’m curious. You’ve got a contract. How did Mayer deal with it?”
“He didn’t. Mayer wouldn’t see me. Neither would Selznick. It was Selznick’s assistant, Gelb. The little bald bastard. He sat me down like I was a naughty child and said the company couldn’t risk keeping anyone whose personal behavior was about to become grist for the gossip mills. That was his phrase, can you believe it, grist?” She laughed and repeated grist.
“So I asked what grist those mills found out about me. He said he was uncomfortable talking about specifics. I said comfort was not the point. This was my goddamned career, for God’s sake. He said did I ever read my moral turpitude clause? I said, Jesus, you wouldn’t do something like that would you? Didn’t say a word, just moved things around on his desk. Dash?”
“Ever get him to reveal specifics?”
“I asked, What morals? What turpitudes? He said it was all too tawdry for him to discuss. I said I wasn’t going to leave until he did. He says, ‘Illicit sexual behavior.’ I say, ‘Not specific enough.’ Dash, he wouldn’t even look me in the eye. Just, ‘illicit.’ Who’s the guy? I said. Not with guys. With women. Plural? He still wouldn’t look at me. He just nodded. I was steaming. Name them, you bastard, name them! He said they would if they had to. Publicly. So what do I do now, Dash?”
“Nothing for now. Did they offer you a settlement?”
“Nothing great. I mean, I’m not a saint, Dash, but I’m not a piece of shit either.”
“You’ve got your talent to fall back on, Myra. Lots of friends in the business …”
“I’ve already made calls, a dozen of them. No one calls me back. I don’t get it.”
Hammett got it. It wasn’t very complicated. Phil Edmunds told someone important he could make the Waxman thing go away and named his price. It was substantial—all of the above. But he couldn’t guarantee his wife wouldn’t blow the whistle; they would have to take care of that.
“All I want to do is work.”
“And you will, you will. Myra, we’ll help you through this.” He was speaking for Lillian too. “Remember, I’m three hours later here. Call earlier.”
She had already hung up.
Hammett lit a cigarette and lay back on his pillow. Already a strategy was forming, not a winning strategy but something to upset the applecart. Call it an insurgency. There was enough material—photographs of the crime scene, affidavits, alternative theories of the crime—to keep the Waxman murder alive as scandalous gossip in the newspapers for years. The cremation still left things open to interpretation. Books could be written, films made. Hell, it never had to go away completely and eventually something would break, someone would crack. That, too, was human nature. But sometimes human nature took a vacation.
Dashiell Hammett had invented so many complicated murder plots with so many unlikely twists just for the sport of it, he had to remind himself now that normal people had no idea a murder like Waxman’s—a political assassination in a sense—often went unpunished. Perhaps usually was the better word. Such a crime altered the course of people’s lives a bit, but it did not tip the world out of balance and cause events to wobble out of control. In fact, such unpunished crimes changed very little. It only makes us sad when we know the truth.
HEMINGWAY WAS NOT IN PARIS as had been arranged. Lillian took it as a sign that things would not go well for her project—there had been many such signs—and maybe even for the war. He had left a note at her hotel informing her that he was in Madrid because that’s where the front was. Martha Gellhorn and Joris Ivens were filming up in the Basque country, where the war was especially brutal. They would all meet in Madrid in one week’s time. Filming had already begun, successfully, he claimed. His letter ended, “We need to beat the hell out of these bastards. Your good words will help us do that. Hem.”
While in Paris Lilly had written in her notebook, How do you dress for this goddamned war? It was not an unimportant consideration. How did you show the participants the respect they deserved? Show them you were neither a naïf nor a dilettante? How should you look so that people could trust you? Certainly a beret, because so many Republicans wore berets. A leather jacket because it indicated a certain military standing, but fleece-lined because it did get pretty cold at night. Dark slacks for mobility and dash, and to break down gender distinctions, with dark athletic shoes for the same reason. Lillian Hellman looked like an experienced war correspondent and she liked the confidence her costume instilled.
Her contact in Paris was a Spaniard named Pascal Rubio, a small dark man from the Spanish government’s Office of Diplomatic Relations, whose task it was to get this important American writer to Barcelona, and from there to the front safely and expeditiously. The first part was easy since rail lines from the French border to Barcelona had not been touched. To get her from Barcelona to Madrid alive might be more difficult. Rubio also
believed Lillian Hellman to be an American diplomat without portfolio and a personal friend of President Roosevelt. Her direct influence might move the United States to more active support for the Republican cause. Because his English was spotty, he referred to her sometimes as an “Emmissionary.”
The Nationalists—a coalition of rightist groups led by insurgent army officers and the fascist Falange party—had indeed pushed the front to the western banks of the Manzanares. Madrid was exposed to their artillery. Republicans and Nationalists were locked in a battle for the superb old city that in all likelihood would determine the outcome of the war. The Nationalists held the skies, thanks to the support of fascist German and Italian aircraft. The Republican army swelled with volunteers from all over the world. In October 1937 the outcome was still in doubt. Lillian was hopeful that there was still time for her efforts to matter as she approached Madrid in a black Ford covered with road dust.
Twice her trip from Barcelona had been canceled, the bombing along the road was so great no driver was willing to attempt it. The Republican army press office, which wanted its story told by Señorita Hellman, could find no one to take so dangerous a trip. Enter Julio Gómez. Gómez agreed to drive the Mees Hellman to Madrid for four thousand pesetas. Lillian reached for Hammett’s cash and agreed.
Lillian immediately liked his looks—dark wavy hair, tall for a Spaniard, ever-eager smile—and liked how smartly he’d put all her things in the trunk of his black Ford. The car was polished and spotlessly clean inside. Gómez declared in excellent English that it was “My car, my own, my contribution to the cause, Señora Hellman.”
“Señorita Hellman.” And off they went on a clear morning at a fairly brisk pace.
Although the road from Barcelona was straight as a string on the map Hammett had given her, it had been bombed so severely that you’d have to drive double the 350-kilometer distance. It was now a trip of six or seven hours at best under terrible conditions. They’d gotten off to a good enough start, but it soon became clear that Julio Gómez was not Lillian’s kind of guy. Not only did he never stop talking, everything he said about the world and the war was dead wrong, and everything else was about Julio Gómez and unlikely to be true. The second category dominated the first. It would have been amusing if there wasn’t so damned much of it. But he was beautiful to look at, which gave him another hours’ grace.
An hour into their trip, Lillian touched his hand on the wheel and said, “Shush.”
He scowled and said, “That is no word, shush.”
“How about ‘Shut the fuck up’ then?”
Planes flew over the nearby main road from time to time; the shelling of Valencia from offshore could still be heard. Gómez told of having been a fighter pilot shot down in the Pyrenees. A bald-faced liar in addition to everything else. Hours passed slowly in the misery of his company.
Just beyond Valverde, Gómez drove off the road about half a kilometer and into a small plaza in front of the village church. Lillian got out and sipped from the fountain and splashed tepid water on her face, the back of her neck. Gómez climbed atop his Ford and sang some lines from “La Paloma.” Women gathered in a few doorways. Were there no men left in this village? Gómez engaged some of them in conversation and eventually he ushered Lillian through a door and down a long blue hallway to a large kitchen.
A straight-backed old woman stood at the head of the table and indicated a place for Lillian to sit on a bench. Against the wall was a middle-aged woman who appeared to be the old woman’s daughter. Seated at the table were the daughter’s daughters, girls in their twenties, one with two babies. All the faces indicated that they had never seen anyone like Lillian in their lives.
There was cool water and red wine and bread and cheese and beans and, of course, sardines. She tried to eat as little as possible but she was very hungry. Gómez quickly asked for seconds.
Back in the car afterward, Lilly spoke of the marvelous generosity of the Spanish people, the women at least.
Gómez said, “They would have fed us even if you were not so famous.”
“I’m not famous.”
“To them, you are Charlie Chaplin’s sister.”
“You didn’t …”
“As I said, they would have fed you anyway.”
It was nightfall when they spotted Madrid in the distance on a high plateau above them. It was lighted periodically by bombs exploding near the city center. There were no airplanes. This was a constant artillery barrage from the Nationalists. “The front is just to the west, so close, within range already of the big cannons,” Gómez explained, which was why it was better to try to enter the city from the rear, even though that would take much longer. Gómez was nothing if not prudent, you’d have to give him that. Lillian was frightened when they finally drove into the city.
Gómez pulled his Ford through and around the rubble of devastated neighborhoods, past the skeletons of old homes, and then down alleyways and streets almost untouched by artillery bombardment, but all in all what she could see of Madrid was in very bad shape. Perhaps it was the time of night, but the city had a ghostly quality. It took Julio a very long time to make his way to the villa where Lillian was finally to meet Hemingway and Gellhorn and Ivens.
Hemingway. He brought up such conflicting emotions in her. Jealousy foremost. Superb writer, really. And prolific. But even more successful than superb or prolific justified. Wasn’t he exactly what all writers wanted for themselves? She said no and thought yes. Wasn’t he what she wanted for Hammett? Again, no was yes.
Eight o’clock was its usual time, and the night’s bombardment had just begun. They drove again through the patchwork of destruction quite a distance to the safety of the higher ground north of the city. The large villa stood alone on a cliff just above a chapel. Gómez escorted her to the door and said he’d wait in the car, all night if necessary. If she could remember to bring something for him, dessert, fruit, cheese, anything, he’d be grateful.
Lillian walked unsteadily up a flight of unlighted stairs. She entered a darkened room and saw the silhouettes of Ernest and Martha on the balcony against the red backdrop of the city. They were watching the shelling of Madrid from this safe dark place. Lillian approached and leaned on the railing of the balcony, a bit weak in the knees, watching the flashes and then waiting for the impacts. No one spoke. During a brief lull, they kissed their welcomes, still without speaking.
“You’re here,” Martha whispered, “thank God.”
“Welcome to hell,” Hemingway said.
“Pleasure’s all mine.”
They faced the bombardment as they spoke, more pauses than conversation. Slowly, information emerged and was exchanged. The important thing for Lillian, the only thing, was the footage from Ivens so she could see what she had to write. There was no footage yet, either from Ivens or from Gellhorn. Soon, it would all be here soon.
Ivens was not in Madrid but at the front shooting the fighting ten miles west of the city. The fighting there was vicious, the outcome of the war might hinge on it. If that line were to crack … But not to worry, Joris will get her his film. And where was Martha’s? Being processed.
Lillian very much wanted to talk about her narration. Didn’t Hemingway want to collaborate on it?
“I’d only screw it up. You’re the best film writer in the world. Well, at least the best one in Madrid tonight. Hah. Don’t think I don’t know how lucky we are to have you. You just write it. I’ll just say your words, and that will be that.” All said distractedly, so fascinated was he by the explosions. It was easy for her not to believe him.
Lillian noticed that the shelling this night was not really random after all. Although there were flashes around the city center, mostly they illuminated a towering building and the surrounding complex of downtown buildings near the bridge that spanned the Manzanares. Fires had started there and begun to spread throughout the area. Distant sirens sounded continually. “It’s the central communications building,” Martha said. “They
’ve been trying to knock it out for a week. Somehow they can’t.”
“Look at that,” Hemingway said, “just look at it. Hell itself.”
“I’d love to turn it back on the bastards.”
“Of course, but look at it. Beautiful.”
“Not beautiful to me.”
Hemingway wasn’t listening: “It’s sickening, but it’s beautiful too, a modern war can be stunning.”
“Fuck that romantic bullshit about modern war,” Lillian said and turned to go.
Martha followed her to the stairs. “You’ll get your film, I promise, Lilly. Be careful. And forgive him, he’s not been himself lately.”
“Careful, yes. Forgive him, no.”
Martha called after her, “We’ll be in touch.”
LILLIAN WANTED TO SEE last night’s devastation to put herself more directly into the war she had to write about. Early as it was, horses pulling carts filled with rubble clomped over the cobblestones. A few cars and trucks rolled by slowly. From one she saw a leg hanging limply. The smell of damp ashes was ever present.
She found the greatest destruction by looking up and across the river. Dark smoke rose from just beyond the dome and spires of the Madrid Cathedral. A soldier would not let her walk across the bridge. She distracted him and ran across. As she approached the smoke, the odor—now it was almost a taste—got stronger. The church was not on fire; everything around it was. She turned the corner and saw all the devastation she could possibly want.
In a hushed quietude, small fires were still being extinguished by firemen. Rubble was being sifted, collected, and piled. The efforts at reordering had yet to make a dent; destruction still held the upper hand. Not all the bodies had been removed. They, too, were being stored like reusable wreckage in the shade of the rectory, covered for the most part, but more coverings were needed. She walked toward the place where bodies were being laid, in some cases with their arms and legs intertwined or grotesquely outstretched as if reaching or striding. These people had been killed so recently and so violently that Lillian was stunned by the life still on their faces. She had the mad thought that she was looking at an accident that could somehow be undone.
