by Paula Byrne
Twice a year, Sofi and Papi would come to Hollywood. She would help me to dress Heidi, brush out her hair and choose her shoes. She would cradle my doll in her arms, singing softly. In those moments, Sofi was happy. She was like a child herself. Then my father would call her to come to him, and the smile would disappear and she would scurry to obey, fearful of rebuke. I remember how her head would be bowed, eyes lowered, hands trembling.
There are many ways to destroy a person. Whenever my mother and father were photographed together, Sofi was always asked to walk a long way behind them. No one seemed to see the girl in the shadows, dressed in my mother’s old clothes.
My father chose her food, her wine, her place of living. Mother gave her only the things she had out-used, and berated her for her weakness of character; ‘schwache limonade’ she would mutter under her breath.
She plied her with sleeping pills and champagne and then scolded her for sleeping late and missing breakfast. Sofi would finally appear pale and withdrawn, hands shaking. Papi would shout at her for her laziness, for not helping Mother, who had done so much to look after everyone. I desperately wanted to say something in Sofi’s defence, to show how much I loved her, but I was cowardly and contemptible.
One bright sunny day, Sofi took out her scissors and neatly cut off the heads of the roses in the garden. When she realised what she had done, she was horrified.
‘Katerlein. What have I done? What will Papi say, and Mutti?’ She was sobbing, terrified.
‘It’s OK. We will put them in vases and tell them it was the gardener’s fault.’
That evening we had guests. Now that Mo had gone, Mother was enlarging her inner circle. Nobody seemed to be surprised by Sofi’s presence. That morning, she had broken a china teacup, its fragments shattering onto the hard, unforgiving floor.
My father spoke.
‘Mutti, we have to fire the gardener. He cut off the roses from the bushes. Sofi, do you have something to say to Mutti?’
She looked horrified.
‘Remember, about the cup that you broke this morning?’
‘Mutti, I’m so clumsy. I am sorry I broke a cup. I will repay you.’
‘I will take it from your allowance.’
Sofi cleared the plates, and I rose to help.
‘SIT. We have guests.’
The guests looked highly amused by the whole set-up. My mother had a malicious glint in her eye that worried me. Later, when the guests had left, I heard her lecturing Sofi in the pantry. Sofi apologising, softly.
The next day, Mother and Papi went away together for the weekend. There had been rumours about their marriage, and Mother had arranged for a photographer to turn up at their Palm Springs hotel. Sofi and I had four precious days together. It was utter bliss, and I never wanted it to end.
We ate whatever we liked, and watched movies, and at night, she let me sleep in her bed. When the lights were turned out, I told her about the pink water, and the sanitary belt that I had to wear every month. She told me that I should be very proud to have become a woman. That I had inside me a lovely room that would one day house a beautiful baby. Every month, the room had to be cleared out, to be made nice and clean, so that when the baby came, the room would be perfect. I drifted into sleep, feeling the warmth of her body, and the softness of her skin.
Mother and Papi returned, looking tanned and happy. The press had taken many pictures of Madou and her handsome husband. Then Sofi and Papi left together for Europe. Mother promised that she would send plenty of money.
I wondered if, now that I was a woman, it was still all right to play with Heidi. I decided that, perhaps, I wasn’t yet ready to be a woman. That evening, when I was undressing and putting her to bed, I overheard my mother on the telephone.
‘Can you believe that Sofi’s done it again? Now I have to find the money. And who will look after Papi when she’s gone away?’
She emitted a tremulous sigh.
‘Such a selfish woman. Hasn’t she heard of a douche?’
Down with the Whole Damn Lot
Madou doesn’t know that this is going to be the end, but she has a hunch that the film will be a disaster, despite everything she’s doing to save it. Nothing seems to work. She stretches across the bed on her belly, looking hard into me, her special floor-length mirror. I have taken up position next to the camera. As ever, she directs the lighting: ‘Move the main spot higher, I need two more lights below.’ She waits for the butterfly to appear above her mouth so that she knows that she looks perfect.
She whispers to me, ‘How can I save this abortion?’
She knows I always speak the truth.
‘Two things should be cut. The first part, and the Child’s throat.’
She chuckles at my joke. But there’s nothing worse than working on a film that everyone knows is a flop. The death of her leading man has not helped matters; his replacement is wooden as a rocking horse. Her contract states that she has final say over the script, and she fights with her director, who refuses to work with her on the grounds that he is not going to allow a star to have so much authority over a story that he is supervising.
Another director is found. He has no rapport with Madou, and things take another wrong turn when the supporting actress stumbles and trips on my lighting cables, and breaks an arm in two places. Madou is furious that her supporting actress is also a blonde; she will allow no other woman to steal her light. When the actress accuses Madou of complicity in the accident, there is a quarrel, and she storms off the set.
The script is lame, her part is a cliché, and the ending is pure kitsch. She can hardly bear to attend the premiere, but she puts on a brave show with a new gown designed by Travis, and a new, shorter, more blonde, hairstyle designed by Nellie. The haircut makes her look younger than ever.
As Madou applies the final touches to her make-up, the Child reads out the stack of good-luck telegrams. There is a loving one from Papi, who sends his apologies for his absence, and one from Mo, wishing her success. There is also one from the White Knight, who is in India, trying to find enlightenment. Hers is the telegram that elicits Madou’s approval: ‘My Golden One. I miss you. Hope you get a warm hand on your opening.’
Nobody is surprised when the picture bombs, but the final blow comes when the president of the Independent Theatre Owners of America declares Madou ‘Box Office poison’. She is on a list of major movie stars who are deemed the ‘Poisanalities’. She telephones Mo and reads out the article.
‘Mo, listen to this: Wake up! Practically all of the major studios are burdened with stars – whose public appeal is negligible – and receiving tremendous salaries necessitated by contractual obligations.
‘Now, admittedly, I’m not at the very top of the list; that honour belongs to Garbo … but they are poison at the box office, blah blah blah. Now, Mo, I must tell you Mae’s response to this, it’s a hoot. She says that the only picture that has made real money in the past year is Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and they’d have made twice as much if they had me play Snow White. Now, isn’t that hilarious?’
The studio cancels her contract, and for the first time in years, Madou is unemployed. I am wheeled away, but she seems unconcerned: ‘Box office poison? Thank heavens. We shall leave for Paris immediately.’
I Kiss your Hand, Madam
Mother called Papi on the telephone: ‘Papi, we are leaving America. Even Hepburn is on the list, and the pop-eyed one, who can act but is ugly. Bette someone. Who would want to pay money to look at her? Crawford, too.’
We packed up her dressing room and left without a word. That was how she wanted it. No drama, no teary farewells. We had always been gypsies, but I still felt empty inside. No more hummingbirds or blue swimming pools or orange trees. Just grey, drizzly Europe. There was no talk of returning. Mother was overjoyed.
Even being back on my beloved Normandie did not help.
I waved goodbye to the Green Lady, wondered if I would ever return. I guess it was a good thing that I didn’t know then that it would be years before I saw her again.
Mother was worried about me. As soon as we saw Papi and Sofi at Le Havre, she launched into another of her monologues about me: ‘Of course, she’s never been a dainty girl. It’s the German in her. She’s big-boned. I could put her on a diet, but she’s a child. She’s so happy when she eats. It’s the sign of a good mother, feeding your child. It’s the American food. I need to call the doctor. Nothing fits. Something is wrong. Her bones are growing too fast. Look at her feet. They are huge.’
I reminded myself to slouch more. But it was true. I was almost thirteen, and I was colossal. My bosoms were capacious. Fleshy pumpkins, not like mother’s creamy globes.
Papi kissed me and assured her that my height was normal. I was tall like he was. He would arrange more tennis lessons. They would buy new clothes in Paris. I hoped they would stop buying those organdie dresses with puffed sleeves and wide cummerbunds. Sofi smiled at me with a smile that reached right up to her beautiful, gentle eyes. Hollywood smiles were not like this. As ever, she was dressed in Mother’s hand-me-down clothes, and though she was slim and attractive, I had to admit that they never looked as good as they did on Mother.
‘Kater, sit up, stop slouching. Papi, maybe we should send her away to school. Like the English do. The food will be terrible and she will lose weight.’
It was confusing, as back in California she insisted on cooking my breakfast potatoes in a whole packet of butter, alongside four-egg omelettes. She encouraged me to eat all the puddings that she forbade herself, staring greedily at me as I gorged.
At our hotel on the Champs-Élysées, The Lancaster, I decided to eat modestly.
‘Eat. It is good for you. Are you sick? Good, then finish what is on your plate.’
Over breakfast, they gossiped. Mrs Simpson was finally married to the former king. Mother was still upset that she had been refused entrance.
‘Mutti, you know she cannot be called Your Royal Highness. Nor any of their children.’
‘Well, we all know that they are never going to have any children. Duchess is already too good a title for her. She’s an American and a divorcée.’
There was talk of war. Mother was anxious to hear news of her mother and her sister. She told Papi how no one in Hollywood talked about the situation in Europe. There was talk of Herr Hitler.
Paris was the most beautiful city in the world. I could understand why my mother loved it so. We became tourists. Mother disguised herself in a black wig and oversized sunglasses, and we set off to explore the sights; Notre Dame, with its heartbreakingly glorious rose windows, the Louvre, and the Tuileries Palace. My favourite outdoor space was the Jardin du Luxembourg, where I sailed a wooden boat on the lake. Mother pointed out the Medici fountain, and I saw the naked lovers, Acis and Galatea, watched over by the terrifying giant, Polyphemus. Galatea had marble-white skin, just like my mother.
Hem was in Paris. Papi, who was never jealous, also became a friend and admirer of Papa Hem. This was the year of writers: Colette, Scott Fitzgerald, John Dos Passos, George Bernard Shaw, Noël Coward, Gertrude Stein, and a truly wonderful man, perhaps the best of them all, who became one of my closest friends. His name was Boni.
Love a Little
She snaps open her compact mirror and examines her perfect lipstick for smudges.
Of all of her many lovers, Boni is the superior. No one can hold a candle. He is utterly exceptional. They meet in Venice. She is with Papi. A tall, handsome man, extremely well-dressed, approaches and asks to introduce himself. Madou is dismissive of such bad manners, but as soon as she hears his name, she is all charm. She motions him to sit, and her husband makes his excuses and leaves.
‘You look too young to have written one of the greatest novels of our time.’
‘Madame, you have made me so happy. Perhaps I only wrote it to hear your magical voice says these words.’
He lights her cigarette with his gold lighter. They talk until dawn. She tells him that she loves poetry, but he doesn’t believe her; after all, she’s an actress. Not a great brain. But she surprises him. Her favourite poem is Rilke’s ‘Leda’. She recites in her husky voice.
And she, all openness, already guessed
who it was coming in the swan, knew that
the thing he asked of her, her dazed resistance,
could no longer hide from him. A swoop,
and his neck butting through her hands’ weak hindrance,
the god unloosed himself into love’s grip.
Then feeling in his feathers for the first time gladness,
the god became a real swan in her lap.
That voice. If she had nothing more than her voice, she could break your heart with it. He is falling hopelessly, helplessly in love with a voice. He doesn’t know it now, but she is the great love of his life.
He is a German exile, who has escaped to Switzerland. He is despised by Hitler and the Nazi Party, who deem him a liar, claim he never fought in the war, and burn his books. Later, she will see his shrapnel scars, in his legs and neck.
He follows us to Paris. He collects art and fine wine. He has smuggled his Impressionist paintings out of Germany and to his house in Switzerland, where he always keeps a suitcase, ready-packed, just in case he has to leave quickly. That, he says, is the life of the refugee. He tells her that one day he will write a book for her. It will be another masterpiece, like his first novel, but it will not be about war and death, it will be about love.
Angel
Mother was madly in love. She knelt at Boni’s feet, and worshipped. She lavished him with presents. She cooked him mushroom soup, and veal and rice. He was a gentle, softly-spoken man, with a passion for great wine. Everything I knew about wine I learned from him. He told me that he threw a bottle of his finest vintage wine into Lago Maggiore in a ceremonial gesture of ‘Thanks to the Gods’, for allowing my mother into his life. She was in his words, ‘the apotheosis of Beauty’. He called her ‘Golden Puma’ – his blonde, melancholy panther.
There was something childlike and vulnerable in this most charming of men. His eyes were particularly beautiful, and he always listened to me carefully, just like Lacy. He was always saying marvellous things that made me think. For example, that pious people are the most disloyal, cynics have the best character, and idealists are the least bearable.
I badly wanted Boni to be my father. I prayed that my mother would not play her little games this time. He was intelligent enough to see that she could not truly give herself to anyone. When she withdrew, he sent her love letters in the persona of an eight-year-old boy called Alfred. She said that Alfred’s were her favourite love letters. I wanted to meet Alfred, as I thought he might like to be my brother.
Boni loved my mother with an intensity that she found hard to bear. He told her that she was like a mirror that gives a wonderful reflection, but which holds nothing. She was Diana of the woods, with a silver bow. Invulnerable and deadly.
She told me that it was he who introduced her to calvados, instructing her to drink it in one gulp, to warm her veins: ‘Sunshine that has lain all through a hot summer and a blue fall on apples in an ancient windswept orchard of Normandy. Only the old Greeks had gods of drinking and the joys of life. Bacchus and Dionysus.’ She was enthralled by his words.
She took her time telling Papi about Boni. He was not just one of her actor conquests, whom she trifled with and then cast aside. She respected the writer and the artist in him. She admired him for his stance against Hitler and the Nazis. When she finally told Papi about her love for Boni, she had a tenderness about her that I had never seen before. ‘And Papi, best of all. He told me he is impotent. So we can just be cosy together.’
Papi threw back his head and roared with laughter.
‘Mutti, they can’t a
ll be impotent.’
In fact, Papi adored Boni. There were many occasions when we all went out for dinner in Paris; Papi, Sofi, Mutti, and Boni. As usual, my memories of my childhood were food related. This was the time of filet mignon; delicate white asparagus; tiny, crumbly strawberry tarts. For once, Papi allowed someone else to choose the wine; such was his respect for Boni’s taste and judgement.
Papi ordered my citron pressé, and I prayed silently that the lemons would be fresh, so he wouldn’t make a scene. Papi always tasted my juice and would think nothing of leaving the restaurant if it were not fresh. It was mortifying when he made a scene. I think now that he was trying to show the world that he was someone other than Mr Madou. He was not to be treated like a fool by a bunch of cooks.
Suddenly, I had an idea. When the sommelier asked what I would like to drink, I blurted out ‘Mineral water, please.’ Papi shot me a glacial look. Later he reprimanded me, furious that I dared to show such entitled independence.
Mother and Boni were gazing at one another, excluding everyone from their bliss. Sofi was too afraid to show her concern, merely bowed her head, hoping for the storm to pass. I apologised to Papi for my thoughtlessness, promised I wouldn’t do it again, and privately thought that maybe Papi minded about Boni more than he was letting on.
Don’t Let’s Be Beastly to the Germans
Two blond men in handsome black uniforms, with silver eagles on their caps, guard Madou’s anteroom in The Ritz. The door opens, and a man walks out with a cheery Heil Hitler!
Madou looks into the glass, smooths her hair, and lights a cigarette, and then another, and then another. Her husband hurries into her chamber.
