Before she called Harriet van Siclen, she went first to Wikipedia’s images.
The photos showed a woman, mid-fortyish, rail-thin, and very elegant, with a perfect upswept coif, a skillful blond color job, perfect skin, careful makeup, a Chanel outfit, and serious jewelry. And among beautiful settings—gala balls, Paris streets, upscale restaurants, and one where Gena hoped to meet her: at home, on a pale sofa, big windows behind her, and lush draperies. On her lap, cozy and comfortable, was a small dog full of thick fluff, with long ears, a pointy snout, and an alert expression. Woman and dog, both looking directly into the camera with intelligent, engaging eyes. The woman looked very calm. The dog looked ready to play.
It wasn’t Harriet van Siclen who answered the phone, “The van Siclen residence.”
“Hello. This is Gena Shaw from Lady Fair. May I speak to Mrs. van Siclen?”
“Just a moment, please.”
There was a wait of a minute.
A new voice
“Hello. Is this Gena? Vivian Dorrance said you’d be calling me.”
Before Gena could say hello, Mrs. van Siclen broke in on her. “The thing is, dear, it’s absolutely the worst time. I’d just love to talk to you, I really would. I’m so completely fond of Lady Fair, I read it religiously, never miss an issue. But the thing is, I’m in the midst of packing, of all things. Practically out of the blue, with practically no word of warning, Russell—Russell is my husband—is being transferred—to Australia of all places, can you imagine—and I’ve just got thousands of things to do. So I really don’t see how I could possibly—”
At this point, Gena broke in.
“Oh, that really is such a shame,” she said. “Vivian said she knew the timing was difficult, but she thought you’d certainly love to see a story about Sweetie Pie in Lady Fair, and you might be able to find a bit of time, if I managed to be very, very efficient and not get in the way of your arrangements.”
There was a silence for a very long minute.
“You’d write about my Sweetie Pie?”
“Oh, yes.” Gena sensed a propitious shift in the momentum here. “We’d definitely be focusing the piece on Sweetie Pie.”
Another long pause.
“With pictures?”
“Of course.” After a couple of silent beats, she added, “Possibly we’d want to feature her on the cover—”
She heard a sigh.
She waited.
“I suppose just a quick break in the day wouldn’t be a problem. If it could really be quite quick—”
“Oh, yes. Of course. I’d make it quite quick. What time is good?”
“This afternoon—maybe at three?”
“Three o’clock would be perfect. And the address, Mrs. van Siclen?”
“Call me Harriet, dear.”
“You’re very kind, Harriet.”
“We’re at six twelve Park Avenue.”
“I’ll be there at three.”
Chapter Eight
Gena looked at her watch. Was there time enough to run down the couple of floors to Lady Fair’s cafeteria, grab a sandwich, and get back to her desk? She’d need a couple of hours to pay proper attention to Romy deVere and the story she felt sure was lurking somewhere in the innocent stack of notes she’d come away with. She decided she was too eager to get started. She could get some lunch later; she’d pick up something before she met with Mrs. van Siclen.
Anyway, she’d have to stop off at her apartment first, because Wiley needed to be walked—and she was going to have to figure out what to do about that. She couldn’t go running home every day in the middle of her busy work schedule.
It must be a little like having a child at home. Well, not quite the same thing, of course—
On a Post-it, she wrote: Dog walkers? Seferino, maybe? She stuck the note on the edge of her computer.
Then she got out her folder of notes from that meeting with Romy. She opened a new folder in the computer file and begin to write:
Romy deVere
Hollywood star, once considered “the most beautiful woman in the world”
97 years old
Healthy, independent
Living in seclusion on a wooded estate in Connecticut (a maid, Martha Baxley, not live-in, comes in every day)
Brilliant career in Hollywood
Now retired, with her big Newfoundland puppy (some puppy—nearly knocked me over. Dog’s name is Qualtinger, but she calls him Karl)
Last ten years, brand new career: painting
Does fabulous work—has been showing in local galleries
In her youth—exquisite, dark-haired, sultry, intriguing
Perfect features, perfect figure
And still very beautiful
Did some scandalous, racy early movies
Famously a “free” spirit
Much married—six husbands, two children (bio details in the file)
Born in Vienna, Austria, May 14, 1919—at the end of the First World War
Was 19 years old in 1938—already a working actress (at the Reinhardt Theatre in Vienna.)
1938: Austria in turmoil—the annexation by Germany
Family escaped, got themselves to America
Gena stopped writing. She focused on that interview. There was a moment there, as she and Romy talked, when she’d felt a kind of a subtext running under Romy’s comments—like when a second theme plays, barely audible, under the main song. A kind of harmony.
Or maybe it was more of a discord.
There was something she said. What was it? What was it she said? What could it be? I’d asked her about her name…I’d asked if she was of French descent…
Gena turned on her recorder and played back that portion of the tape:
“Oh, my dear, the name is ridiculous.”
There was that lovely voice, with its velvet undertones, lightly accented.
“I arrived in Hollywood with an entirely different name. I was Lotte Elisabeth Kanfer, but it was thought to be too German—the US was then on the brink of war with Germany, so they made up a new name for me. It mattered not at all to me. I wanted only to be out of Austria and safe in America, and I was eager to work. I was, after all, only nineteen years old. What does one know at that age?”
“My father—ah, my papa…Thomas Kanfer. Tommy, everyone called him. He was an engineer, you know. Quite brilliant. And so advanced for his time. He thought women were entitled to full lives independent of any man’s wishes. He encouraged me to work and to be educated, and to let no man arrange my life for me, let no man be my master. He shared so much of his work and his thinking with me. So much, indeed, I could almost, if I wished, make my living as an electrical engineer.”
I remember now. She looked at me as though she wanted to share a secret. What kind of secret could she possibly have? She’s been in the public eye, scrutinized intimately by thousands of people, had thousands of articles written about her, thousands of interviews—what can there be about her that has not been revealed, explored, exposed to a fare-thee-well. All those husbands, six of them, and her children. And a few scandals along the way. And if she did have some sort of secret, why would she be trying to share it with me? Without coming right out and saying what it is? I must be imagining—
But still, there was something. Gena’s good journalistic instincts were at work, and she’d long ago learned to pay attention to the messages her instincts sent her.
She replayed that last bit of tape. Romy had looked intently into her eyes as she’d said those last words.
“…he shared so much of his work and his thinking with me. So much, indeed, I could almost, if I wished, make my living as an electrical engineer.”
“Hmm. There’s something there…something there…”
Time to shift gears. Time for Gena to change the writer’s hat to the researche
r’s. Time to go to Google.
Start at the root. Go back to Tommy Kanfer, the father. And the husbands—all six of them!
An hour later, Gena was staring at a sheaf of printouts, stunned by what she had uncovered.
The first item, on top of the pile of papers, was an application to the United States Patent Office, dated June 1941, made by Thomas Kanfer and Liesl Hardtmann.
Their application describes their invention as a “radio steering device…secret communication systems using carrier waves of different frequencies…for the remote control of torpedoes and aerial craft…simple and reliable in operation…difficult to discover or decipher…an enemy would be unable to determine at what frequency a controlling impulse would be sent…” Attached were schematics and diagrams.
Below that first set of papers was a stack of scholarly articles, and current articles written within the last couple of years, that traced the advanced electronic technology of our time, the “frequency-hopping spread spectrum” of Wi-Fi and Bluetooth, of GPS and CDMI, back to their beginning in Kanfer and Hardtmann’s 1941 wartime radio guidance system. (Google explained that CDMI stands for “Cloud Data Management Interface.”)
Actually, her Google sleuthing had been easier than she’d expected. Starting with Thomas Kanfer—that had been a simple start. He was Romy’s father. And Hardtmann? That took a moment longer, till something in her memory bank clicked and connected to a name in the list of Romy’s husbands. Sure enough, there it was: Just a quick look at the file on Romy and she read that Romy’s first husband, the much older man she’d married when she was barely 17, was Hans Hardtmann! And she had still been married to him when she and her father escaped from Austria, before she went on to become a fabulous Hollywood star—one of the all-time greats. And then it was only a couple of mental associations that led her from Liesl Hardtmann to Lotte Elisabeth—or to Elisabeth’s diminutive form, Liesl! So it was as Liesl Hardtmann that Romy filed, with her father, the application for the patent they’d invented together!
How could Gena not be stunned?
Not only had the stunningly beautiful Romy deVere, together with her father, helped the Allies win the war, but their creation reached down decades, to the present day; they were actually among the founders of the electronic world we’re living in today.
My God! That’s incredible. That’s absolutely incredible!
Gena sat back in her chair. She needed to take some deep breaths. Maybe ten or twenty.
Romy deVere, world-famous, international beauty and glamorous, successful Hollywood star, had a secret life as Lotte Elizabeth (Liesl) Kanfer Hardtmann, engineer, inventor, and the brains behind a profoundly innovative technological breakthrough, a breakthrough that was not only of major military significance, but also effectively civilization-changing.
So why did she keep it a secret? I’m surprised it wasn’t publicized extensively…
I’m sure she wanted me to know. So why couldn’t she just tell me directly? Why be so secretive about it? Why be so mysterious?
Gena looked at her watch.
Well, whatever the reason, I’ve got to get going now. Need to check in on Wiley. And I have that appointment with Mrs. van Siclen at three.
But all the way uptown, even as she took Wiley for a quick walk around the block, and then in the cab on the way to six twelve Park Avenue, her mind was on Romy and the amazing secret of her wartime past. It was certainly something she’d explore with her at the photo shoot next week.
But in the meantime, am I supposed to keep her secret? Surely Romy is experienced enough to know, if you want to keep a secret, you don’t tell it to a journalist. No, if you tell a secret to a journalist, you mean to expose the secret. So why now? After all these years. And why in this oblique way, without really telling me anything, practically expecting me to read her mind? And am I ready to share it with Marge? I have an obligation to tell my editor in chief, don’t I? And Dinah? And what about Viv? I always tell her everything. And Warren, too. I never keep secrets from him. But this isn’t my secret, so nothing to Viv and nothing to Warren.
For the time being, she was going to say nothing to anyone. It could wait until she had more information, if Romy was willing to add to what she’d already learned.
Chapter Nine
The maid opened the door. Behind her, brilliant sunlight flooded a long hallway and a distant drawing room beyond, in which the drapes had been drawn back and great glass doors had been opened to the soft afternoon breeze. A terrace was visible beyond them.
“Mrs. van Siclen is expecting you.” She gave Gena a small and proper smile. Her uniform was gray, with a starched white half-apron and white collar and cuffs. She turned, and Gena followed her through the hallway.
The drawing room was done in gentle colors, cream and beige. Paintings on the walls, soft sofas and chairs grouped around a coffee table. A Cartier perfume—La Panthère—hovered over everything, along with the scent of good leather and polished wood. The room would have been a perfection of serenity and ease, except—
Except that today it was a mess of boxes, piles of clothes here and there, wads of tissue paper strewn about.
And deep in the sofa, surrounded by billowy pillows, was Mrs. Russell van Siclen, née Harriet Adele Brackman. On any other day, Harriet would have been a vision of calm and composed elegance, expensive haute couture, perfect coif, some impressive gold accessories and a well-toned, well-massaged, suitably buff figure. But on this day, Harriet was frantic, surrounded by more tissue paper, lists of things to do, marking pens, and stuff, lots of stuff! A strand of hair had come astray from her perfect upswept hairdo. She waved Gena toward an armchair at her right.
“Come in, dear. Come in.” Harriet put the pen and notepaper onto the coffee table in front of her. She brushed at the loose strand of hair, trying unsuccessfully to tuck it back in place, and seemed to be saying, it’s all just too much!
Gena was about to sit down, but the chair was already filled with something silky and long-haired. She caught herself just as two big brown eyes and a pointy snout turned up toward her.
“Oh, don’t mind the Pie,” Harriet said. “She’s perfectly friendly. Just push her away.” As Gena hesitated, Harriet said, “Over here, Pie.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Come sit here with me.” The Pie seemed to have a perfect understanding of the English language—with a jump down and another jump up, she was nestling in beside Mrs. van Siclen. “And don’t worry. She hardly sheds at all, and she was brushed this morning.” She paused, reflectively. “She’s absolutely the best dog in the whole world. I’m going to miss her so much.”
As Gena sat down, Harriet said, “It’s just all so sudden. I had no warning at all. The bank is transferring Russell to Australia.” She didn’t stop to explain that Russell was her husband, as though of course Gena would know. “He’ll be in charge of setting up a new operation in Melbourne, and we’re leaving day after tomorrow. The men are coming to pack us up, and I have to decide what stays and what goes. Heaven knows when we’ll be back. It’s exciting, of course, and a marvelous opportunity for Russell, but the awful thing is, the Pie can’t come with us.” Gena had no chance to offer the appropriate word of sympathy or ask a question. “Australia has these dreadful laws about dogs coming into the country. A hundred and eighty days of quarantine. Just think. I wouldn’t dream of putting Sweetie Pie through that. And I have no idea how long we’re going to be there. Russell says it could be a couple of years. Poor Pie. But she’ll be with Paul, so she’ll be all right. Won’t you, Sweetie, you poor thing?” She put a kiss on the top of the dog’s head, who responded with a little lick at her nose. “That’s Paul over there,” Mrs. van Siclen said. “On the phone, as usual.”
With a gesture, she pointed to the study, just through the arch into the next room, where Gena saw a tall man in a dark gray business suit talking intently into his cell phone. He was standing near a fl
oor-to-ceiling window, silhouetted against the bright sunlight. His back was turned to them.
“Paul,” Harriet called to him. “This is Gena Shaw, from Lady Fair. She’s doing a story on Cresteds.”
Paul turned and nodded briefly in Gena’s direction. His attention was on his telephone conversation.
“Don’t mind him,” Harriet said. “He’s always on his phone. You just get comfy and I’ll have Mimi get you a cup of coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”
“Coffee would be lovely. Thank you.”
Without a word between them or any signal that Gena could see, Mimi, who had been waiting discreetly in the doorway, turned and left the room.
Harriet called again to the man in the next room. “Paul, please get off the phone and give me a hand here.”
Paul slipped the phone into his pocket. “Sorry, sis,” he said. “They need me at the office. This minute. Gotta go.” As he passed through the room, he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll pick up the Pie in the morning and say goodbye then.” And with a nod to Gena, he added, “Nice to have met you.”
And he was gone. Gena knew he never caught her name.
She opened her bag and got out her notepad and pencil, ready to begin the interview. “I know you’re busy today, and I really appreciate your taking the time to talk to me. I’ll keep it as quick as possible.”
“I see you use paper and pencil. So old-fashioned. That’s nice. And pencil, not pen.”
Gena smiled. You have lovely things here. This fabric”—she touched the cushion next to her—“is an imported Italian silk, isn’t it? A pen could do damage here.”
“You have a good eye,” Harriet said.
Mimi rolled in a little glass-and-brass cart. Harriet served coffee with some fragile, lightly spiced sugar cookies. While they talked, Sweetie Pie dozed in the comfort of Harriet’s lap and attended, occasionally, to the women’s conversation. And for an hour or so, while the shadows gradually lengthened across the city, Harriet talked to Gena about the pleasures—and problems—of owning a Chinese Crested.
Who Do You Love? Page 4
