Sirius (7 page)

“Stop!” calls Marlene Dietrich. “That was my invention.”

“What?” interjects Fritz Lang. “Surely the only German hand motion that has a claim to copyright is the Hitler salute.”

“My dear Liliencrons,” says Peter Lorre, raising his glass. “You have to get out of Berlin! Come to Hollywood! That was my advice to you that day on the telephone. And now you’re here.”

Applause. Fanfare from the band. The guests embrace the Liliencrons and wish them luck.

Carl Liliencron has tears in his eyes.

“My God,” says Rahel. “Now he’s even crying.”

“That’s life,” replies Robert Siodmak. “No happiness without tears. No sorrow without a smile.”

The band plays
Why Have You Forgotten Waikiki?

Billy Wilder is a force to be reckoned with on the dance floor. In Berlin, he occasionally had to make ends meet as a ballroom dance partner for widows.

“What’s your dream?” he asks suddenly.

Liliencron shrugs. He doesn’t understand the question.

Wilder clicks his fingers. “Singing? Then become a singer. Burgling? Then become a burglar. Re-invent yourself. You need a dream to get yourself up in the morning.”

And with those words, he’s already back on the dance floor.

At two in the morning, Humphrey Bogart rocks up with his dog Zero on the lead. He’s drunk.

“Who fancies a game of Skat?” he slurs. Lorre taught him the card game, and he’s been addicted ever since.

Sirius and Zero sniff one another. It could be the beginning of a wonderful friendship.

The band play
Over the Rainbow
.

This is the night that Carl and Rahel Liliencron truly arrive in Hollywood. They dance, closely intertwined, even after the band has long stopped playing. Suddenly, they too are speaking the universal language of happiness.

“We’re living,” whispers Rahel.

“Yes,” replies Carl.

*

One morning, Liliencron wakes up and decides that he will no longer be called Liliencron. For some reason, the name is standing in his way. Even though it’s still unclear to him what that way is and where it might be leading. But the name is too cumbersome. It feels as though he has to constantly lug around the suitcase he emigrated here with.

“My name is Carl Liliencron.”

He doesn’t want to hear that sentence anymore. He doesn’t want to be an outsider anymore. He wants to have the kind of name someone has when they belong.

Why not Carl Crown?

Short. Quick. Clear. Snazzy. Cheerful. Brilliant. Confident. Affluent.

That’s it.

John Clark is the first to hear the new name, and he is very taken with it.

“Yeah,” he says, “good idea. Makes things easier.”

He looks the freshly-baked Carl Crown up and down, then suggests: “New name, new clothes.”

The two men have pretty much the same build, so the clothes the Hollywood star fetches from his wardrobe fit Carl perfectly.

A pair of white flannel trousers with coloured pleats – fit.

A light-blue polo shirt and an ochre-coloured silk sweater vest – fit.

A green double-breasted cashmere jacket – fits.

A pocket handkerchief: pink with a yellow diamond-pattern.

Shoes: white full brogues with a Derby cut.

John Clark claps his hands with delight. “
Now
I like how my guardian angel looks!”

Carl Crown is still a little unsure. He looks like someone who wants to be a trumpet-player in a jazz band.

But maybe that is what he wants, and he just doesn’t know it yet.

“Let’s go and have a drink!” says John Clark.

He says that a lot. Every time there’s something to celebrate, in fact, and even if it’s just some tiny insignificant detail, like a door opening after he rings the bell. Another reason to celebrate. John Clark was always in an excellent mood; you had to give him that.

They drive to the Formosa, sit up at the bar and order Gin Fizz.

“Is Hitler really such a bad guy?” asks Clark.

“Yes,” answers Crown.

“Do you play golf?” asks Clark.

“No,” answers Crown.

Just the usual things people talk about at a bar. When they’re really talking to each other for the first time.

“Do you like blondes?” asks Clark.

“Yes,” answers Crown.

“And your girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend,” says Crown.

“Is your wife a blonde?”

“No.”

“No girlfriend?” John Clark throws his head back in laughter. “Well, that’ll soon change with the way you look now.”

Another round of Gin Fizz. And another.

When Carl Crown comes home that night, his wife sees a drunken man in a light-blue polo-shirt and an ochre-coloured silk sweater vest.

Rahel cries bitterly.

In the early hours of the following morning, the German Wehrmacht marches into Poland. Adolf Hitler has sparked off the Second World War.

*

The year of 1939 will go down in movie history, everyone in Hollywood is already sure of that.

The Wizard of Oz
is coming to movie theatres in August,
Stagecoach
in September,
Mr Smith Goes to Washington
in October,
Ninotchka
in November, and finally, in December,
Gone with the Wind
.

The Great Dictator
,
Rebecca
and
The Philadelphia Story
are currently being filmed.

One day, people will call this “The Golden Age”, or something like that.

It’s not a bad moment to be living in Hollywood. Carl Crown spends every free minute he has in the movie theatre. He is learning the universal language of happiness. He has enough time, after all; his job as a guardian angel consists mainly of waiting around.

Every morning, at 6
AM
on the dot, he picks up John Clark and chauffeurs him to the studio. Clark is filming
The Sea Hawk
, with Errol Flynn.

Crown then drinks a cup of coffee in the Brown Derby, before the matinee opens around the corner in the El Capitan Movie Palace.

At lunchtime, John Clark usually wants to do a “bit of exercise”. By that, he means physical training with some starlet. He has his own bungalow on the studio grounds, of course, but too many curious reporters hang around there.

So his guardian angel drives the couple to a secluded clearing in the Laurel Canyon and discreetly absents himself. The bottle of champagne on the back seat has to be cooled to just the right temperature. Based on his experience, after ten minutes it’s usually safe for Crown to make his way back.

He then enjoys the afternoon programme in one of the numerous cinemas on Hollywood Boulevard.

At six in the evening, the hardest part of his job begins. This is when John Clark is in the mood to party.

He asks to be driven straight to Don the Beachcomber, where a group of people are already waiting for him, ready to embark upon a Martini marathon.

The later the hour, the harder things get for the guardian angel. In the Trocadero, he has to point demonstratively at his watch when a dancer lays her head in John Clark’s lap. Charlie Dotter empties an ice bucket over his friend to cool him off.

“Time to go,” says Crown.

“Aw, come on,” pouts Clark, “let’s just stop by the Banana House quickly.”

The Banana House is not the kind of place to end the evening on a sedate note; to say that the venue has a lively atmosphere would be a major understatement.

A real-life grizzly bear lurches around on the dance floor in rhythm with the band, chimpanzees and impalas run around freely, pelicans fly through the air, the waiters sit on dromedaries, and the girls hang from vines. Both man and mammal dance the hula.

Carl Crown likes this place. There’s absolutely nothing to remind him of Klamtstrasse here.

John Clark, of course, is quite keen to turn the night into a legendary one. But after just one drink, his guardian angel is already telling him it’s time to go home.

At least Clark has a souvenir from the jungle with him. A full-busted mamba, who nestles down lasciviously on the back seat.

Carl Crown recognises the mamba. He saw her a few days ago in the film
Only Angels Have Wings
. Her name is Rita Hayworth.

*

Clearly John Clark is an animal lover, thinks Crown. So one day not long after, he takes Sirius with him to work.

“What’s this then?” asks Clark in surprise. “The guardian angel brought reinforcements.”

“This is Sirius,” Crown explains. “I hope that’s okay.”

“No problem,” replies Clark, “as long as he doesn’t drop his needles. What do they call it with dogs?”

“Needles?” Crown doesn’t understand.

“You know, like Christmas trees. We still have needles lying around the house from last Christmas. It was ten months ago. You can’t get rid of the things.”

“No, no, Sirius doesn’t drop his needles,” Crown assures him.

To err on the side of caution, Sirius keeps his distance, taking up residence on the front seat. Suddenly, the journey doesn’t seem work-related anymore. More like a private whistle-stop tour of a man and his dog who just happen to have a Hollywood star on the back seat.

“You should go to the dog cemetery sometime,” suggests Clark. “It’s not far from here. Valentino’s dog is buried there. Bogey’s last dog, too. It could be interesting for you, Sirius.”

Sirius isn’t so sure. But he acknowledges the gesture politely. He doesn’t really want to think about death just yet. But if he did, then of course that would be the ideal place for it.

Life is much too short when you’re a dog. Sirius broods. The lobster lives to 60 years old. The sturgeon to 150. The whale even lives to 200. It seems that living in water enables you to live longer. But what great experiences can you have underwater?

For example, how many sturgeons are currently being driven through Hollywood in a Chevrolet?

“Your dog is a little melancholic, don’t you think?” asks Clark, as though he could read minds.

“Sometimes,” replies Crown. “He gets it from me.”

I know that guy, thinks Sirius, when they arrive at Warner Brothers and see Humphrey Bogart glowering down at them from the poster wall. Is his dog there too?

The porter bows knowingly and opens the barrier.

John Clark has a day off from filming today; he’s meeting a young director called John Huston, who is planning to film Dashiell Hammett’s
The Maltese Falcon
.

“It will be a
film noir
,” enthuses Huston.

“Hopefully not too
noir
,” says Clark. “Otherwise people won’t be able to see me.”

“I don’t think you’re right for the role,” says Huston, abruptly ending their conversation.

“That was quick,” remarks Crown in surprise.

“Ridiculous!” blusters Clark. “An amateur. He wants to shoot a movie in the dark. The man will never come to anything, you mark my words.”

For the first time, John Clark is exhibiting the slightest trace of a bad mood.

“Let’s go and have a drink,” he suggests. It seems he even says it when there’s nothing to celebrate.

They saunter over to the canteen.

Meanwhile, Sirius is exploring the studio grounds. Not the safest of places, he notes. Motorised trolleys hurtle towards him from all directions, criss-crossing past one another, carrying stage hands with props, cameramen with tripods, lighting technicians with spotlights, everything you can think of.

They beep as they weave their way through the narrow alleys between the halls, to make sure that no king, gangster, ghost or whatever else from any of the movies gets run over.

What’s that red light blinking over the entrance of the biggest studio? Sirius is curious. He heads over to see what’s going on.

A hall as immense as Berlin’s Alexanderplatz has been decorated to represent the deck of a Spanish barque, currently engaged in a dramatic naval battle with the British fleet.

“Action!” yells the director. Hundreds of extras in period dress wave their swords around. A wind machine blasts into the sails.

Sirius is deeply impressed.

“Cut!” yells the director. “What’s that mutt doing in there?”

Sirius ducks his head down.

“We’re right in the middle of the decisive battle on the high seas and some mongrel wanders into the shot!” roars the director.

A marine officer puts Sirius back outside the door.

What a memorable debut.

For the first time ever, Sirius was on camera in Hollywood. And it won’t be the last, either.

*

The whole family are gathered around the dinner table together for the first time in a long while. In Capri, a pizzeria on Melrose Avenue. Carl and Rahel live just around the corner, but their apartment is too small for everyone.

Germany is at war. France and England are supporting Poland. Russia is mobilizing.

“Just imagine!” says Carl.

Benno Fritsche has written to them. His new next-door neighbour is Karl-Heinrich Bodenschatz, Major-General in the Ministry of Aviation.

“Not exactly the kind of neighbour you feel inclined to hop over the fence and see,” wrote Benno.

“In our house,” sighs Rahel.

“Do you remember how Uncle Benno outwitted that commander?” asks Else.

Georg thinks back to the goods train to Birkenwender. “Personal chauffeur of Reich Minister Dr. Goebbels. Where would you like to go?”

“To Hollywood, please!” cries Carl.

Rahel talks about the party at Peter Lorre’s. “Humphrey Bogart is so handsome!”

Just the usual things people talk about when they’ve survived.

What was it Robert Siodmak said that evening? “That’s life. No happiness without tears. No sorrow without a smile.”

Else talks about her life in the Korngold residence.

“Erich is simply wonderful!” she gushes. “He plays piano all day long. He’s currently composing the soundtrack to
The Sea Hawk
. It’s a film about a naval battle between Spain and England. Very dramatic.”

Sirius pricks up his ears. That sounds like the film he’s acting in.

“And at lunchtimes he always gives me piano lessons,” Else continues. “He’s an absolute genius! He was eleven when he composed his first concerto, a piano piece for the ballet.”