by Paula Byrne
This is a Changing World
Hallows’ Evening comes; the day before All Saints’ Day. The time to remember the saints, martyrs, and all the faithfully departed. Time to light a candle on the graves of the dead, so that, for one day, when the magic is most potent, the spirits and fairies can make contact with the physical world.
Feed the children with soul cakes to commemorate the dead. Bake them with allspice, ginger, nutmeg, and raisins. But let the children observe the rituals of Calan Gaeaf, the first day of winter. The day when children rush home to their parents, before the black sow and the headless woman devours your soul. The last child will never reach home.
Adref, adref am y cyntaf’, Hwch Ddu Gwta a gipio’r ola.
(Home, home, at once, the tailless black sow shall snatch the last child.)
Madou laughs.
‘I didn’t take you for the superstitious kind. You’re far too intelligent. Calan Gaeaf is an old wives’ tale, to persuade children to come home quickly when it gets dark.’
‘And I didn’t take you for a cynic.’
‘Are you going to tell my fortune, mirror?’
‘Certainly not. I disapprove of fortune tellers, most strongly.’
‘Well, there you are.’
‘Except for Hallows’ Eve. In a darkened room, for one night only, hold a candle to a mirror and you may divine the future. But, I warn you, Joan, the future might come as a terrible shock.’
‘Papi, did you hear the news on the wireless? The man in the Paris embassy who was shot? He was the man I saw, who renewed my passport.’
Papi has not heard the news.
‘Yesterday, he was shot five times, in the spleen, and the pancreas. Hitler sent his own personal physician to attend him, but it was too late. Is Kater with you? You mustn’t let her out in the dark alone. It’s the first day of winter for you, though here it’s morning, and the sky here looks freshly washed and polished.’
‘Mutti, do they know who shot Rath?’
‘Yes, a Polish Jew, a young man, let me see. I wrote down his name. Herschel Grynszpan. Hitler deported his parents from Germany to the Polish frontier, so he took his revenge.’
‘Mutti, this will be serious. There will be repercussions.’
‘I know, but nobody here seems to care. I have to go, Papilein. I have an appointment. But I wanted you to make sure that Kater does not go out alone. You know how she likes to walk. I send kisses to you both. I miss you.’
It is now evening, and the Jew, Billy, arrives at the bungalow in the Beverly Hills Hotel. He, like Papi, fears that Hitler will unleash his revenge for Rath. He lights Joan’s cigarette, and they talk long into the night.
‘Joan, Grynszpan has been arrested. He has confessed and insisted that his motives were to avenge the Jewish people for the actions of the Germans. He left a letter for his parents. This is very serious. I fear for my people. All those we left behind.’
‘I fear that Hitler will unleash his revenge. You know I met him, Billy? Rath. I met him in Paris.’
‘The rumour mill from Paris and Berlin says that Rath and Grynszpan were not unacquainted. Rath is known in Paris as Madame Ambassador. He met Grynszpan at Le Boeuf sur le Toit.’
‘Ah, so he was a pansy. I thought as much. A crime of passion? How will the Germans cover that up?’
‘I don’t know, but the revenge will be bloody. Ribbentrop has said that the first shot has been fired, by the Jews, and that they will take up the challenge.’
‘Well, we shall wait to see what unfolds. I shall keep the wireless set on. I don’t think Hitler will wait long.’
When Billy has left, Madou prepares for bed, removing her make-up with witch hazel, and applying cold cream to her skin. No one anticipates what will happen next. I tremble to think about the consequences, but when they come, the sound of broken glass will reverberate on this day and for evermore.
No Highway in the Sky
The German word sounds so beautiful; glittering stars, shining crystals in a dark sky. I used to love seeing the canopy of bright stars in the early hours of the Californian desert on our way to the studios. Kristallnacht. But this was the very opposite of nature’s night-time glory. It was man at his very worst.
Mother once told me that breaking a mirror causes seven years of bad luck. When Papi told me about the pogrom, I worried about all of the bad luck that was brought upon the German soldiers who broke the glass with sledgehammers and bricks. Papi said that so much was broken that bonfires of glass lined the streets of Berlin. Small children, turned out of hospitals, in bare feet, tried to avoid stepping on the broken shards. It was a night of broken windows and spirits. The beginning of the End.
I worried about Grandmother and Aunt Birgitte. It had been months since we had heard from them. Papi told me I should save my concern for the Jewish people who were suffering at the hands of the Germans. For the first time, I longed for my mother. Papi told me that the new film contract had not come through, but that Mother could not return until she had completed her papers to become an American citizen. They both knew that the day might soon come when it would be necessary to escape from Europe. Until she returned, I was to go to school in Switzerland. It was time for me to have an education.
But before that happened, I heard the news that Mother’s papers were through, and she was headed for Paris. Boni reappeared, in preparation for her arrival, filling her suite with white lilac, and bringing more books for me to read. With all the talk of war and pogroms, I was happy to see my mother, so elegant, so funny, with all her Hollywood gossip.
‘Sweetheart, you will never guess. Barbara Hutton has a new boyfriend, you know the shirt salesman from Blonde Venus. Now why would she go for a pansy, with all that money she has inherited? I’ve heard that Cole is furious. I bet he regrets writing Night and Day for him.’
She rattled on, full of life and energy. The problems in Germany seemed a million miles away. At least she had news of Aunt Birgitte, who had finally got married, though Mother disapproved of the union.
My mother’s suite in The Ritz became a camp for refugees, mainly German people, who had fled their country and knew that Madou would feed and clothe them. I remember her ordering large platters of ham and chicken breast, in her impeccable French. She would write cheques for clothes and tickets to America for anyone who asked.
As Paris became hotter, we made plans for summer. Mother decided that we should depart for the south of France. Boni and Papi were to come, and Sofi, who was finally ready to be released from the sanatorium. I packed Heidi’s things, and buffed up the emerald sisters. Mother and I shopped for summer clothes, and she took me to the House of Schiaparelli, on the Place Vendôme. She had heard that Elsa had designed a one-piece bathing suit with an integrated bra. Mother was ecstatic, conscious as she was of her saggy breasts. ‘Thank Heavens I only had one child’ was her constant refrain.
Lacy came to visit, and took me out to dinner. I told him all about my worry for Grandmother and Aunt Birgitte, and how much my mother hated me looking fat, and her fear that my bones were growing too fast. I wanted to tell him about my sadness about the broken glass bonfires, but I was too ashamed.
He always listened, and, though he didn’t give me advice, just having someone there was enough. Somehow, I was never shy with Lacy. He was playing the part of Iago in a stage production of Othello, and he promised to send me a copy of the play. On the way out, he asked me if I still dodged mirrors, and I laughed. He noticed so much. Maybe that’s why he was such a good actor.
Top of the Morning
The bellboy sets me down beside the trunk, the suitcases, the hatboxes. Madou removes me from the pile of luggage, opens my leather casing and places me on the bedside table. The studio knew that a vanity – a sturdy travel mirror, the case monogrammed in gold lettering – would be the perfect consolation prize for the failure of negotiations over a new contract.
It is a room of noble proportions. Cream and gold furniture, with a simply marvellous view of the glittering blue sea beyond. The scent of pine drifts in from the balcony, and the linen curtains billow out in the breeze, brushing against me. The light is different here to that of dusty California; softer, limpid, with tones of turquoise and pink.
Madou, with no film career to think of, has allowed herself to tan in the irresponsible Mediterranean sunshine. Her skin is butterscotch, and she wears flowing Schiaparelli beach pajamas in shocking pink. Naturally, she looks divine. The Child asks for a pink dress, too. With her red sunburned face and hideous organdie dress, she looks like a strawberry sundae. Madou abstractedly rubs calamine lotion on the Child’s sunburned nose, and wonders privately why her daughter can’t tan smoothly brown instead of this lurid pink.
Boni is being most vexing. He moons about, scribbling away at his novel in German on his lined yellow pad. Poor Madou. She deserves constant attentiveness. She admires herself in the mirror. Takes out a pink silk turban to complete the outfit. The Child sits quietly mixing suntan lotion made of olive oil, iodine and a drop of red wine vinegar with her chubby hands. She soaks everything up like a sponge.
Madou’s voice has a silky, bored tone.
‘Boni, why are you ignoring me?’
‘Joan, I have to work. Why don’t you swim with Kater? The pool will be most refreshing at this hour of the morning.’
Madou picks up a loose page of his manuscript, and reads it aloud: ‘The smell of the soil was strong and grateful. Now, Boni, that’s a good sentence. Papa Hem would approve.’
Boni smiles in a strained way, and takes back the page. She pesters him, like a small child, desperate for attention, while looking at herself in the mirror.
‘Boni, I don’t want to get old.’
‘You won’t get old. Life will pass over your face, that will be all, and it will become more beautiful.’
He puts down his work and takes her face between his slender hands, cradling it, just looking down at it.
‘Your eyes are bluer here than in Paris and you are tanned. How brown you are, Joan.’
‘You love me?’
‘Yes, but I’ll do everything I can to break away from you.’
‘I understand. Boni, I do.’
Her face has changed. Like a mirror, he thinks. Time and again it has reflected whatever is held before it. Now it is composed and beautiful.
‘Bird,’ he says. ‘Still on my branches, but with wings ready for flight.’
Leap into Life
Mother and I, resplendent in our new bathing suits and beach pajamas, made our way below the hotel to her candy-striped cabana, which nestled among the rocks, carrying our books, sun hats and beach robes. The Hotel du Cap was one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. It was a huge, white wedding cake of a hotel, perched atop a cliff. The restaurant overlooked the sea, and the swimming pool was carved into the rocks.
After a lazy morning, swimming and reading, we made our way to the restaurant to meet Boni. The food was delicious. I remember the hotel’s ice sculptures in the shape of dolphins, mermaids, and swans, dripping in the heat. The seafood was the best I’d ever tasted; snow crab, midnight blue mussels, and langoustines cooked in garlic, partnered with crispy warm bread.
Boni opened the wine list and ordered the finest wines and champagne. Madou seems irritated by his presence: ‘Boni, you are drinking too much. Everyone knows that Fitzgerald is a drunkard, and Papa Hem drinks only because he is a real man, but you are too sensitive.’
‘My beautiful puma. You must not worry. It won’t change anything.’
Mother was in one of her tetchy moods.
‘Why does Willie surround himself with all those boys that he picks up on Moroccan beaches? Of course, Noël does that too, but he does it politely, with discretion. You see, that’s why it’s a relief when I’m with Papa Hem. He’s a real man – and a real writer.’
Boni winced and continued to drink.
‘That stupid man, Chamberlain. He thinks he can persuade Hitler? Does he think that going to the Berchtesgaden will impress the Führer? The British insist on behaving as though they are an empire.’
‘Maybe that is the attitude that will save them in the end.’
‘Boni, don’t be so stupid. I thought you were supposed to be a great expert on war.’
‘My darling, I am making an observation on a national characteristic, that is all.’
Mother gave him one of her looks, and left the table. Boni rose and followed her to her suite as she gave her final orders: ‘Kater, stay with your governess. Try not to get your nose burned.’
Free at last, I asked my governess’s permission to paddle in the sea. She nodded her consent and followed me out of the restaurant.
On a slim crescent of white sand, I took a moment to cool my toes in the cool sea. At this time of day, the beach was usually deserted, but that day there were a few people stretched underneath bright striped beach umbrellas. They didn’t look at me. I thought they must be English.
Behind me, I heard an outbreak of noise: shouting and shrieks of laughter. The voices sound American.
‘– Gee, Kick, how can you run so fast with such thick ankles? –’
‘– Bobby, you move on over to the right –’
‘– Pat, quit the tears, you’re on Jack’s team –’
‘– has anyone seen Teddy? –’
I turned my head, tilting the brim of my canvas sun hat, so that I could see more clearly. Sun gods. White teeth, blazing blue eyes, tan skin … a halo of light … I knew about light. Mr von Goldberg would have died for this light, this skin.
They were all laughing. Dimpled. Teasing. Mustn’t spy on them. That would be wrong. Mother always said it’s rude to stare.
I stooped to retrieve my peignoir and beach rug. Then I looked up and he grinned at me. A skinny boy with unruly golden-brown hair and freckled skin.
‘You wanna play?’ he asked.
I shook my head and made my way to the steps, my governess hurrying behind. Mother would not permit me to mix with American children; especially those she did not know.
The sun was now broiling, but my governess insisted on wrapping me in the peignoir. I walked towards her, and I glimpsed a tall girl, with blonde hair and huge blue, vacant eyes. She was sitting on the rocks, watching the young people.
By the stone steps that led back to the hotel, I looked back at the beach. There was a man, also blond, with the most wonderful smile I’d ever seen in my life. It wasn’t a Hollywood smile, because it wasn’t for the cameras, it was for real. He ran up and carried the young boy on his broad shoulders, spinning him round and round.
‘Quit it, Joe, quit it,’ he cried. The young boy is thrown in the sea. Nobody noticed. He ducked under and came back for more.
‘Do it again, Joe, do it again.’
My governess was cross.
‘Why are you staring, Kater? You know your mother would not approve.’
‘I’m sorry, Fräulein.’
We made our way back to the hotel to change for dinner, but my head was full of this family: they had to be a family for they all looked so much alike. I knew one thing: I would return to the beach the next morning.
The most vital thing was that my mother should not know how I was fascinated by these people. Mustn’t show any interest while in her presence. This, I told myself, was very important. I was becoming an expert at keeping secrets from her.
Twentieth Century Blues
Madou is in a mood of nostalgic regret. She often turns to me when she is feeling blue, because she knows how I understand and love her so completely, even as I truth tell, and chastise, and scold.
She is growing bored with Boni, who loves her with such intensity. She craves new adventures. She wants to work. All this fuss about sex. I try t
o amuse her, to take away her sadness.
‘To me, passionate love is a tight shoe rubbing blisters on my Achilles’ heel.’
She smiles, that wistful smile, which I love so much, and lowers her hooded eyes.
‘There’s something terribly sad about happiness, don’t you think, mirror?’
‘Not at all. There is no sense in grief. It’s a waste of emotional energy.’
‘I believe that being in the depths of sadness is just as important an experience as being exuberantly happy.’
‘With your success, Joan, comes many pleasurable trappings. An extravagant number of gowns, and jewels, and a still extravagant amount of publicity. But there’s a penalty to pay, and that’s loneliness, a deep loneliness.’
She pauses to think about her career so far. Her fights with the studio. Mo’s desertion, John’s death in her arms.
‘Those studio types – they want to tear out your intestines.’
Madou knows that success has spoiled her, that she can’t live an ordinary humdrum life.
‘People are jealous of your success, Joan, especially a woman who dares to be different from other women. It’s the one unforgivable sin in society. People will never forgive you for being successful. It’s so pleasant to feel sorry for people.’
‘I never took my career seriously. Duties are what make a life worth living. Lacking them, you are not necessary to anyone. Sometimes you speak out of turn. Anyway, I don’t need your treacly compassion.’
‘There’s no need to be so unpleasant.’
‘There’s no need to be so sensitive. You, who know me so well, as well as my conscience knows me.’
‘You’re not a mystery to me, darling. You’re transparent as glass.’
She laughs and concedes defeat. But she is worried. There are bills to be paid, and she wonders how she will get the Child back to America if the war breaks out. She will speak to that nice American ambassador, and see if he will help them. She has seen the way his hungry eyes follow her around the dining room, even though he has his pretty dark wife and children in tow.
