Stardust

by Joseph Kanon

  Kaltenbach finished, the sudden quiet like a touch to Ben’s shoulder. His eyes went to the rabbi, placing the box in the square, then handing Liesl a flower to put with it. She stood still for a second, then took Ben’s hand, drawing him with her to the wall. He was given another flower and then, as if it had been rehearsed, they put them in together, one on each side of the box. When she finished she gave Ben a weak smile, her eyes confused, still not sure how to feel. He looked at the box, suddenly overwhelmed, feeling a loneliness he’d resisted before. Danny was gone, for good. Not just gone, taken away. By what right? And it wasn’t just Danny. A death spread out in shock waves, touching other people, changing them, taking pieces of them, too. Demanding some kind of justice. You owed the dead that much. How could he want it for millions and not this one?

  Only a few Americans came back to the house afterward, so the lunch turned into a German gathering, the language floating warm and familiar around the buffet table like the wisps of steam from the chafing dishes. The caterer had come through with the salmon and what looked like a dozen other dishes, but people had brought things, too, brisket and cakes, an unexpected homey touch. All of it was being eaten, heaping plates and seconds. Liesl, who might have sat in a corner, receiving, instead was everywhere, seeing to people, playing hostess. Ben watched her, waiting for signs of strain, but he saw that the nervous activity, with its chin-high assurance, was also a kind of protective screen, like sunglasses. There were no whispered concerns, no side glances to see how she was holding up. She was right in front of them, busy, in control.

  Instead, to his surprise, he found that he had become the center of attention, new ears for old complaints. The curfew during the war. The five-mile restriction for aliens. Gas coupons. All that over, thank god. And then, in lower tones, what was it really like now in Germany? You hear such stories. And the newsreels. You can’t recognize things anymore. That madman. Ben heard half of it, distracted, back at the Cherokee, his head noisy with questions. A bottle that shouldn’t be there. Someone else. An idea, once there, you couldn’t leave behind, not for polite conversation. So he nodded, answering with only part of his mind, and they backed away, respecting what they took for grief, not wanting to trouble him further. But keeping an eye on him, intrigued.

  “It’s like any colony,” Liesl said when they got a moment. “They like to be with each other, not the natives, but they get a little bored, too. So you’re something to talk about. Here comes Heinrich. Be nice. I don’t know how he lives.” She leaned forward to kiss Kaltenbach’s cheek. “Heinrich, thank you. It was lovely.”

  “From here,” he said in German, tapping his chest, then turned to Ben, the rituals of introduction.

  “I didn’t know,” Ben said, “about his time in France. Getting people out.”

  “Yes, many,” Kaltenbach said, still in German. “Some by boat, but that was difficult. So, Spain.”

  “Over the Pyrenees?”

  “Yes. The mountain crossings were easier than the trains. Not so strict. One guard, maybe two. Sometimes you could walk in. If you got up there. Imagine, Franz and Alma, at their age. Not hikers, you know, not young men like your brother. It’s a very dramatic story.”

  “Excuse me,” Liesl said. “There’s Salka.”

  “Very dramatic. A film,” Kaltenbach said. “I think so. Think of it, everybody waiting to get out. The noose tightening. You know what we called the house? Villa Espere Visa. But your brother acted. It would be a tribute to him. His story. I have a treatment of this, I’ll show it to you. Exit Visa. See what you think. They could do it at Continental. That’s where you are, yes? Your brother’s story. It would be a gift to his memory.”

  Ben looked at him, feeling ambushed.

  “I’m not really at Continental. Just putting something together there for the Army.”

  And how had he heard about Continental anyway? Ben marveled again at the speed of news here, Lasner in touch even on a train.

  “But you’ll read it. You’ll see,” Kaltenbach said. “An exciting film. And you know I can work with another writer. For the English. But who knows the story better? Who lived it?”

  “Ben,” Liesl said, coming up to them, a short, plump woman in tow, “you have to meet Salka. She’s everyone’s mother.”

  “Everyone’s cook,” the woman said, taking Ben’s hand. “They come for the chocolate cake, not for me.”

  “No, your good heart,” Kaltenbach said.

  “Daniel liked it,” she said, waving this off. “So maybe you’ll like it, too. Come Sunday. Any Sunday you like.”

  “Thank you. I’ll look forward.”

  “Even Garbo comes sometimes,” Kaltenbach said.

  “So Lasner, now he’s letting people go to funerals? On his time?” she said, raising a finger. “Make sure he pays you for the day.”

  “He doesn’t pay me for anything. I’m still in the Army.”

  “You’re at Continental for free?” she said, amused.

  “How did you know? About Continental. I mean, how does everybody hear these things?”

  Salka looked at him, puzzled. “It’s in Polly. You didn’t know? You should keep up,” she said, a gentle tease. “Of course,” she said, catching herself, “on such a day. Who has time for papers.” She nodded to the room. “It’s too soon for this. A young man. But we don’t pick our time, do we?”

  “No.” Somebody else had.

  “I knew your father, too. Tell me something. I’ve always wondered. Why did he stay in Germany?”

  The question mark of his life.

  “I don’t know. I suppose he thought he’d be safe.”

  “No one was safe,” she said, a settled matter. “Even then.”

  “I don’t think he thought about politics. Just movies.”

  “Otto? Children never know their parents. When he was young, he and Berthold could argue for hours. Hours. All the problems of the world. No, he knew.” She shook her head. “To make those comedies. To stay for that.”

  He found the paper in the den, already opened to Polly’s column.

  Off the Chief: Ben Kohler, new at Continental, here early to attend funeral of brother Dan after last week’s tragic accident. The surprise death suspended production on the upcoming Vera Ralston picture, which Dan was slotted to helm. Word on the lot: the picture’s set to be a breakthrough for Republic’s new star. Polly’s prediction: a new director and Vera skates over this rough patch of ice to big box office.

  The funeral just a plug for Herb Yates.

  “Spell your name right?”

  Ben looked up. A burly man in a suit a little too tight for him stuck out his hand.

  “Howard Stein. I just wanted to pay my respects. I can’t stay.”

  “Thank you,” Ben said. “Actually, they got it wrong.”

  Stein noticed the column logo. “Polly? She can’t even spell her own. Used to be Marx, like Groucho. But also like Karl. Somebody points this out to her-one of the Hitler Youth she pals around withso the next day it’s Marks, k-s.”

  “You’re not a fan.”

  “That bitch?”

  Ben smiled. “Not a fan.”

  “I’m with the CSU. You know her with the unions. Like another goon with a club.” He looked up at Ben. “Sorry for the language. I don’t think she’s a joke.”

  “Is that how you knew Danny-the union?”

  Stein nodded. “He was a good friend to us. When he first got here. You don’t forget that.”

  “But not lately?” Ben said.

  “No, not lately.” He shrugged. “It happens. People fall away. It’s a hard place to hold on to something. You want-” He looked around at the house. “You want a lot of things. So you make some trades. But he was a good man. I’m sorry about this. You just get in?” he said, his voice gruffer, moving away from anything soft.

  “Few days. Those pickets I saw in front of Paramount-that was you?”

  Stein nodded. “Studios want the union they already got, not us. Why
not-they’ve been paying them off for years. After Willie Bioff got sent up, they tell everybody they’re cleaning house, but nothing changes. That’s four years now.”

  “Sent up for what?” Ben said, not really paying attention, a local dispute.

  “Racketeering. So you’ve got the head of the union behind bars, it’s time for a change, right? Your brother thought so-we all did. And look. Four years later and we’re out there walking with signs and the studios are still paying off. Cheaper than paying the employees. In a year like this, when they’re making so much money it’s like sitting on a fucking oil well. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get started. This isn’t the place.” He looked again at the newspaper. “And now we’ve got her making it worse. Now we’re all Reds.”

  “There weren’t any pickets at Continental.”

  “No, you start with the majors-the big five. Then everybody else comes in. Who’s going to follow Lasner?” He looked at Ben. “Not that he’s any different. Dump the cash on some hotel bed and get yourself a new contract. They like doing business that way. It’s an outlaw town, they still have that mentality. You know, one day they’re at a meeting, the studio heads, and I see them walking out of the commissary and I say to myself, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s the boys from Chicago. Same look. Well. This isn’t the place.” He looked at Ben, hesitant. “I liked him,” he said, shaking Ben’s hand, then glanced around the room. “It’s some place he’s got here.” He turned back to Ben. “I don’t understand it.”

  He followed Stein back into the busy main room, half-hoping he could pass unnoticed out onto the terrace, but Liesl caught his eye, flagging him down. Somehow the funeral had made them a temporary couple, alert to each other’s signals. She took his arm lightly, lowering her voice as she steered him toward Alma Mahler, eating pastry near the table.

  “She thinks you’re ignoring her,” she whispered. Then to Alma, “Found.”

  But once they were past the introductions, the sympathies, there was little to say. She was a woman of such regal self-absorption that Ben suspected she had no conversation outside herself, so he fell back on the usual, how she liked California.

  “For us it was very pleasant. Before Franz died. Now I never go out. But before-you know Stravinsky is here? Schoenberg? Like Europe, with sunshine.” Her eyes twinkled a little, waiting for him to respond, evidently a phrase that had worked before. “Of course, we were fortunate. Franz’s success.” She let the rest of the thought hover there, leaving Ben to imagine the riches. “You know it was a promise he made. He said if we survived, he would write about Lourdes, and look. So Bernadette blessed us, too. Who would have imagined it then? Such a success.”

  “And the film.”

  She nodded, accepting tribute.

  “Of course, not serious art, like Mahler. Gropius.” Listing former lovers like credits. “But it’s important here, to have a success. It’s what they respect. And of course it’s nice, too, to be comfortable. Look at poor Heinrich. In Germany such an important name. I remember passing a bookstore, a whole window, all Kaltenbach, no one else. And here? No one knows who he is.”

  “The books aren’t translated?”

  “No. Franz, Lion, Hans of course,” she said, tipping her head toward Liesl. “But Heinrich, it’s too European maybe. So it’s hard for him. We all help a little. Not charity, we tell him, a loan until better times, but of course he’s proud. Once in all the windows. Liesl said you were just in Germany?”

  “Yes,” Ben said, surprised at the veering off.

  “It’s bad there, everyone says. Heinrich wants to go back. ‘I want to be a writer again,’“ she said, quoting, but shaking her head. “Well, you know what it’s like. I had a letter. My friend Beate. She says people are like zombies. Numb.”

  “They’re hungry,” Ben said.

  “Yes, hungry,” Alma said, not even glancing at her own plate. “But not reading. Not reading Heinrich.”

  “They will again. Someday. Let’s hope so anyway.”

  She looked up quickly, as if she had been corrected.

  “But not here, I think. He doesn’t have the popular touch, Heinrich. Like your brother. He had the popular touch. Detectives,” she said airily, sliding it in as easily as a pinprick. “Heinrich is an artist.”

  They were rescued by Kaltenbach, slightly hunched, like a courtier, who came to say their car had arrived.

  “You’ll excuse us? These cars, they don’t like to wait. Such delicious food,” he said to Liesl. “But you must be tired. All these people. You should rest.”

  “Yes,” Alma said. “It must be terrible for you.” She paused, another prick. “So unexpected.”

  She patted Liesl’s arm, then nodded at Ben and handed him her plate, leading Kaltenbach across the room, tipping her head to people as she went. Just a hand on his elbow, enough to move him along. Ben stared at it. To push a man over you’d need a tighter grip. Had Danny screamed? He must have. At least a startled grunt. Only suicides made no noise, grim with purpose, not taken by surprise. Nobody had said. But it might be in the police report.

  “Is something wrong?” Liesl said, peering at him.

  “Sorry,” he said, snapping back. “Is she always like that?”

  “You don’t like her?” Liesl said, a mock innocence, then laughed, the first time Ben had seen her really smile. She covered her mouth with her hand, a girl’s gesture.

  The police report. Tomorrow.

  They went out on the terrace, picking up wine glasses off a passing tray.

  “Daniel didn’t like her, either.”

  “What did they see in her?” Stay on Alma. “Kokoschka. Mahler. She had half the men in Vienna.”

  “She used to be a great beauty they say.”

  “Who says?”

  She laughed again. “She does, mostly.”

  He looked at her, caught by the laugh. It seemed to come from some private part of her, something you only saw in glimpses, like her ease in the water.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said, putting the drink down. “They’ve only started coffee.”

  “It’s going by itself now,” he said. “You can sit one out.”

  She glanced up, working out the idiom, then took a sip of wine.

  “Did you notice? They don’t talk about him. Anything else. They’re embarrassed.”

  “How are you doing?” he said, a private question.

  “Well, Alma’s gone, so that’s one thing,” she said, evading it. “Now there’s only my father to worry about.” She nodded toward the end of the pool where two men were smoking cigars. “He always quarrels with my uncle. Well, not always. Then it’s like this, polite.”

  “Quarrels about what?”

  “Germany. Dieter says my father blames the people. You know the article he wrote. The German character. And how can you blame the people? It was Hitler. So back and forth. They’re all like that,” she said, looking around. “Their house burned down and they argue about why it happened.”

  “But it’s important. To know why it happened.”

  “You think so? I don’t know. It doesn’t change anything. It’s gone. They all want to go back. But to the old days. Heimat.”

  “Do you?”

  “Me? I almost died there once. You don’t get rescued twice, I think. Who would marry me next time?” She tried to smile, then looked away, restive again. “Well. There’s Salka waving so Mann must be leaving. He’ll expect-oh god, not Polly.”

  She was looking toward the pool again, where Polly Marks had wedged herself between the brothers-in-law.

  “Who’s the guy in the gray suit? Do you know? I saw him at the funeral.”

  “He came with her-I suppose he works for her.”

  Ben smiled to himself. “I thought he was a cop.”

  “A police? Why police?” she said, her head jerking around.

  “But he wasn’t. Just a legman.”

  “Why would you think that?” she said.

  He looked at her, but this wasn’t t
he time, not with people around them, not with nothing more to offer than a feeling and the wrong bottle.

  “I’ll go play referee,” he said, heading toward the pool.

  The group at the end, like actors in a silent, were telling the story with their bodies-Ostermann leaning away from Polly, who was cornering him with attention, her back to his brother-in-law, the legman off to the side, smoking and watching them with the same quiet sweep he’d used at the funeral.

  “Hello again,” Ben said to Polly, interrupting them.

  She turned in mid-sentence, caught slightly off guard, trying to place him.

  “Ben,” Ostermann said, cueing her.

  But Polly had already found him in her mental file and only gave him a quick nod before she went back to Ostermann. “They sure sound like a front to me. You think it’s all innocent-I’m for world peace, too, who isn’t? — and the next thing you know they’re using you. Your reputation.” The same rushed voice, quivering.

  “Do you think I’m so famous?” he said gently, making light conversation. “No.”

  “You’re not just anybody, you know that. Your name speaks-”

  “I tell him he has to be careful,” Dieter said.

  Polly didn’t even turn, brushing this off with a blink. A relative from Pasadena.

  “You listen to Polly,” she said. “Warners doesn’t buy just anybody. If you have any doubts, people asking to use your name, call me. I’ve been here a long time. Turning over rocks.”