by Jerry Ludwig
In the intense sorrow that followed her death, Leo reportedly fell apart for a while, but my mom filled the void: she became Jana’s surrogate mother. She took care of us as if we were both her children. I know how much she enjoyed dressing up Jana. Laughing, Mom used to say it was like playing dolls. Later, when we were almost teenagers and living in L.A., Leo married Vivian Hollenbeck, a snooty New York socialite, who didn’t like kids. So Jana still brought all her girl problems to my mom. Teddy, of course, was a second father to Jana. And Leo was that for me, notably during those years when Teddy was away in the war.
So that’s how it was. Jana and I always together. Trophy children doted on when we weren’t being totally ignored by our parents. Not out of meanness, but they were interested in—and once we reached Hollywood, they were constantly surrounded by—interesting people. And let’s face it, they used to say, kids aren’t that interesting. So we had to be precocious to get attention, but the rest of the time we could spend amusing ourselves. We invented make-believe worlds, confided every secret, and shared every new discovery.
When we were nine she proposed a scientific experiment. She had heard that methane gas from farts were inflammable, so she borrowed the Ronson lighter on her father’s desk and we climbed up into the tree house in the backyard. I dropped my pants and let a big one go—Jana flicked the lighter, both of us braced for an explosive whoosh. And the fart did light up—but only enough to blow out the flame. We both laughed so hard we almost fell out of the tree house.
From the time we were ten we had wheels—bicycles, not cars—and there was no stopping us. We’d pedal to the library or the park where we would stretch out on the grass and gaze up at the clouds, wondering how high is up and whether there are people on other planets. “Not like us,” Jana said happily. We bumped shoulders and laughed.
I loved her laugh, it came out almost like a snort. And I adored her gift for sarcasm, except when it was directed at me. In school it often got her into trouble. But she was bold and irrepressible. I remember when we were maybe eleven and had the meanest teacher at Kenter School. Always picking on Jana. We were priming for a district-wide spelling bee. The teacher called on Jana to spell the word assume and use it in a sentence.
“Assume,” Jana chanted, “ay-ess-ess-you-em-ee. Assume. Never assume your teacher is smarter than you are.” That got her a classroom guffaw and a trip to the principal’s office. Her dad didn’t punish her, because he and my parents thought it was funny.
Things between Jana and me changed around the time we were thirteen. We became a little shy around each other. I started getting a buzzing feeling when we were together, and she seemed to feel something similar. It was too strange for us to talk about, but Jana found an outlet. She confided in my mom. I would walk into a room where they were having these deep conversations and they’d stop talking. And both smile at me. I really felt left out. When I mentioned it to my dad, he assured me that women just were like that sometimes.
What it was, of course, was hormones kicking in. Mom had explained all the ramifications to Jana, and she explained them to me. Suitably cautioned; nevertheless, Jana and I began to spend a lot of time up in the tree house where earlier we used to swing on ropes and play Tarzan and Jane. Now we were tentatively embarked on an even more exciting game. We were too young and too scared to do much more than hug and brush lips and dare exploratory gropes. But it was our newest secret and it was thrilling. We were boyfriend and girlfriend. Then our brief interlude of puppy love was interrupted by the House Un-American Activities Committee.
* * *
After my dad bailed out the window to avoid the federal process servers, he got to the nearest phone to warn his partner they would probably be knocking on his door next. Teddy and Leo made a beeline for their high-powered lawyer—that’s how they always referred to Harry Rains.
Harry calmed them down. Of course, they had reason to be worried, he acknowledged. The Hollywood Ten, comprised of writers, producers, and directors, had recently had their lengthy court appeal rejected and gone off to prison for Contempt of Congress for refusing to answer the sixty-four-dollar question: “Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party” and name anyone and everyone they knew who was. Now HUAC was reconvening new hearings. A subpoena was a ticket to the Blacklist.
“So what do we do?” our dads asked.
“Leave it to me,” they quoted Harry Rains, who told them to go home and relax. He would handle it. Everything would work out for the best.
We all wanted to believe that. My normally sunny mom—dad always called her “Ellie with the laughing eyes”—had the most difficulty. She was trembling and had to take a sedative that night. But during the next few weeks there were no more knocks on either family’s doors.
Then mom had a scary encounter in upscale Vicente Food Market in Brentwood. She was filling her shopping cart and reached for a ripe cantaloupe and someone tried to grab it away from her. It was Lela Rogers, Ginger Rogers’s mother. Teddy and Leo had written a hit movie for her daughter. Lela Rogers was one of the Hollywood right-wing activists who used her political contacts in Washington to bring HUAC to town.
“Excuse me,” Mom said, “but this melon’s mine.”
“Whatever happened to share and share alike, you Commie bitch!” Lela Rogers snarled. “You should all go to the electric chair.”
She meant like Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, who had been executed recently for stealing A-bomb secrets for Russia. Mom came home in tears.
Again, Harry Rains assured our dads he was working on the matter. But on the afternoon of the Fourth of July, 1950, both our families were at the UCLA baseball diamond for the softball game and picnic sponsored by the Screen Writers Guild. The annual event also celebrated the recognition of the Guild by the major movie studios only a decade before. That had been accomplished after years of stonewalling by the studios. Finally, the writers filed suit with the National Labor Relations Board and the studios were forced by federal court order to negotiate a contract. The directors and actors organized and rode in on the NLRB ruling.
Jana and I were in the bleachers with her stepmom and my mom, cheering for our guys. Bottom of the ninth and their team was ahead by one run, but before the first opposing batter could step up to the plate, the same two Slim Jims—McKenna in the lead again—strolled up to Teddy and Leo in the outfield and served them with HUAC subpoenas. Everyone was silent. Doing it in front of a hundred writers and their families was chilling. A man behind us whispered, “It’s like the first roundup of the Jews by the Nazis.” The writers in the stands began to hiss and boo the FBI agents. I was scared. Were they going to put handcuffs on Uncle Leo and my dad and drag them off? Then I noticed my mom was shaking, real bad, so I put my arm around her the way I thought Dad would if he were up here.
The FBI agents smiled and doffed their fedoras at the hostile crowd and walked off. Leaving the taint of fear in the air. But after a moment of confusion and murmurs, the home plate umpire shouted “Play ball!” So the game played out. Our team won.
But our family didn’t stick around for the picnic. We raced home. Dad showered while Mom packed a suitcase for him. I was crouched in a fetal position on the floor of the landing outside their bedroom listening to them check off the details. Underwear, pajamas, travelers checks, don’t forget the reading glasses. As if this were an ordinary business trip, except for the panic in their voices.
My father was making use of the escape plan they had concocted long before. Passport in his back pocket as always. Down the stairs, through the kitchen, into the attached garage. Garage door down, blocking the view from the street, we loaded the suitcase. I climbed into the front seat, my mom got behind the wheel, and my dad, covered by an old blanket, hid on the floorboard of the backseat. We pulled out and drove to the airport, Mom brushing tears from her eyes in order to see the road, me looking behind us through the rear window to see if we were being followed, hoping that when we reached the airport th
ere wouldn’t be police waiting or Dad’s name on a Stop This Man list. I was scared all the way that a squad car would pull us over.
Sweating, we got to LAX and held our breaths. Dad bought a ticket, and no one stopped him. Plane leaving almost immediately. We raced to the departure gate where Dad hugged me and said, “You’re the man around here now. Take care of your mother.” I was too upset to ask him what he meant. Exactly how was I supposed to take care of her?
Then he embraced Mom and kissed her, said “I love you, Ellie, see you soon.” It was worse than when he went off to the war. She clutched at him, tear-stricken, didn’t want to let go, but she had to because the gate was closing. I held Mom’s hand, and she gripped my fingers so hard it hurt, but I held on until Dad disappeared from sight. Then we went to the floor-to-ceiling terminal window and watched the plane take off for Mexico City.
I was confused and horrified that after all the overheard conversations during these last years this was actually happening. My father was fleeing the country where he was born, the country he fought for in France, Belgium, and Germany. I was old enough to understand he was leaving rather than appear before HUAC and name names. Betray old friends. But I wasn’t old enough to understand how our country had become this way. And why did it have to happen to my family?
* * *
We got rid of our house at a loss five weeks later in a distress sale and followed Dad to Mexico. The Vardians saw us off at the airport. Uncle Leo was working around the clock to finish postproduction work on the movie he had just directed. His first A production. While Dad was away in the war, Leo, who had been deferred because of a heart murmur, had climbed the Hollywood ladder and become a hyphenate: writer-director. As soon as he finished editing, they would follow us south of the border—unless Harry Rains was successful in his efforts to quash the subpoenas. Leo was still hopeful, Jana and I vowed to write to each other every day.
Dad had found us a hacienda in Oaxaca. The town reminded me of Olvera Street in downtown L.A. with all the Mexican craft and clothing stalls and cantinas featuring mariachi musicians and spicy foods. The Mexicans working on Olvera Street all spoke English, and they wore colorful costumes with lots of spangles, as if they were extras in an MGM musical. The citizens of Oaxaca wore simpler clothing and the food was even tastier, but most of them spoke only Spanish. Mom was nervous, as if she had been banished to Mars. Dad promised that when Uncle Leo and his family got here, that would make things better. But the Vardians were delayed. We didn’t know why. Dad didn’t think the phones were safe enough for us to call Leo. Then he received a call from Harry Rains.
When he hung up the phone, all the color had drained from Dad’s face. “What’s wrong?” Mom asked, a tremor in her voice. “Leo,” he finally managed. “Leo and his family won’t be coming.”
Leo had decided to go to Washington and testify. It was on the TV news the following night. My mom and dad and I sat there and saw it. Even in Spanish we could decipher the brief report. Leo squirming at a table in front of a microphone facing the Committee. “Hollywood Writer-Director Confesses To Being A Former Communist.” Names a half dozen others. The only surefire way to avoid the Blacklist. My parents recognized all the names. I knew several of them from Sunday barbecues. My father’s name was not mentioned. He was stoic; mom looked shell shocked.
“Oh my god,” she whispered in a stricken voice, “how could Leo have done that?” But instantly she came up with an explanation. The footage was not real, it was doctored, distorted, the way the Hollywood special-effects people can do it. “I’m sure that’s what happened!” She turned to my dad for confirmation. He said nothing. It was the closest I’d ever seen him come to crying.
I was on the verge of crying, too. I kept thinking—will I ever see Jana again?
* * *
I did, but not until eight years later. And then it was totally unexpected.
Teddy and I were celebrating in the bar of the Ritz hotel in Paris with a sleazy Italian producer. He was buying the drinks, a rare gesture of largesse. We were delivering the final draft of a black-market script we had written for him—I was working with Teddy, by then in the shadowy world of Blacklisted writers, serving as a sounding board, helping Teddy plot out stories, taking a first pass at some of the scenes. Teddy said I was getting good. We had just been paid the balance of our fee. As usual, Blacklist rules prevailed: very short money and no screen credit. The Italian producer left and we were finishing our drinks before returning to our dinky Left Bank hotel, when out of the low-lit barroom gloom Jana walked up to us.
My Jana. My heart jumped up into my throat. I had imagined what she might look like now. But my imagination had failed me. We were both twenty-three and the teenage promise had been fulfilled: she had matured into an absolute beauty. Tall, slender, lovely figure, dressed in a Givenchy pantsuit. Hardly any makeup, but her face, that face I dreamed about, was perfection. I was so thunderstruck I couldn’t speak. But she wasn’t talking to me or even looking at me.
She said to Teddy, “My father is in the booth over there. Will you talk to him?” Before Teddy could answer, she added: “He’s dying.”
Teddy got up and lumbered across to the booth. Leo was always a small man, now he was gaunt and shriveled, almost tiny. Jana and I stayed behind at the bar. I offered her a drink. She asked for a Coke. And we sat there on stools, side by side, watching the two ex-partners and ex-best friends deep in conversation. Leo was doing most of the talking.
I snuck a peek at Jana. “Well, look at you—all grown up.”
“You, too.” End of subject. She was still staring intently off at the booth. Hadn’t really looked at me yet. The flood of things I’d always planned to say to her had dried up. The silence between us extended. Gotta say something.
“What’s he dying of?”
“Lung cancer.”
I mumbled something I hoped passed for sympathy. She twisted her soda glass on the dark bar and gazed down at it. Still not looking at me.
“Your dad’s lost weight, too,” she said, “but he looks good.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, “Teddy’s good.” Then, trying to keep something going: “Teddy and I are working together now. I’m kind of the sous-chef on the scripts we do, Teddy’s the master chef.”
“When did you start calling him Teddy?”
“A while ago. After I came back from Korea. When we started going to script meetings together, it sounded funny calling him Daddy.”
I waited for a response. A comment. None came. Another jumbo silence grew. Teddy and Leo still huddling, Teddy talking now. I shot a glance at Jana; she was holding her breath, obviously concerned about what Teddy might be saying. But the conversation in the booth remained low key. While our conversation here at the bar was nonexistent.
“Remember in the old days,” I finally said slowly, sadly, “we’d be able to finish each other’s sentences.…”
“And now we don’t even know how to start one.” She didn’t say it mean, or sad—just a fact.
Suddenly the meeting was over at the booth. Teddy was rising; Leo got up, too. He looked terrible. Fragile, rickety. They started to shake hands but it became an embrace. Leo desperately clinging, Teddy leaning over and patting his back.
Then Teddy came back toward the bar. Jana rose abruptly, reached over and squeezed my hand. “Nice seeing you.” Kissed Teddy gratefully on the cheek and hurried away. My long-hoped-for opportunity to restore contact had evaporated while I dawdled tongue-tied. And she couldn’t even bear to look at me even once. Now she was back with Leo, who was swaying, one hand on the side of the booth for balance, waving to me with the other.
Out on the street, while the doorman hailed a taxi for us, I asked Teddy how it went. Teddy stared off. I waited, wanting to know but not wanting to pry. Then Teddy cleared his throat.
“He said, ‘I gave them names, Theo—but I didn’t give them yours.’”
“You believe him?”
“Would that make what he did to t
he others okay?” Teddy gave a terrible shrug. “But why berate a dying man?”
Then I got to see my father cry. There were tears slipping down Teddy’s cheeks and he pawed them away with his jacket sleeve. I didn’t know if he was crying for the fate that had befallen Leo or for what Leo had done. Probably all that and so much more. I put my arm around my father’s shoulder and guided him into the taxi.
* * *
The headlights turn into the circular driveway of the Vardian house. It’s a hunter-green Jaguar, the four-door sedan model. Of course Jana would be driving a roomy car, she’s had this claustrophobic thing about narrow spaces since she was a kid. The Jag is probably a birthday or a graduation present to her from Leo. She parks near the front door and the outdoor security lights are triggered. When she comes out of the car I can see her clearly. Casual but expensive sports clothes, suitable for the studio. Running shoes and a Panorama Studio windbreaker. She looks marvelous. Just as she did last night and the night before. This is the person who means more to me than anyone else. I can call to her from my car and she’ll turn and I can get out and come across the street and—what will I say?
Suppose I get there and it’s the way it was in Paris? Silence. Where there once was a never-ending flow of thoughts and feelings. Suppose that’s gone forever. The Blacklist looms like Mount Everest between us. Is it possible to get to the other side? I’m frozen in my car. I’ve charged up hills under machine-gun fire in Korea and I can’t get across this street in Westwood.
So I just watch her in silence again. Until Jana unlocks the front door of the house and disappears inside.
I’m about to turn my engine on when red and blue lights flash and glare in my rearview mirror. Cop car. No, not an LAPD cruiser. Residential security service, the words ARMED RESPONSE visible on the driver’s door as it opens. A hefty figure climbs out. Tan uniform and black gunbelt. As he swaggers toward my vehicle, he unsnaps his holster. I keep my hands in plain view on the upper half of the steering wheel. Last thing I need is to be shot by a trigger-happy rent-a-cop.
