Stardust (65 page)

“Sol—”

“They even give you a—what’s it? MOS? Even the government, for chrissake. You know what I’m saying to you? What I’m thinking?”

“I can’t, Sol,” Ben said simply.

Lasner waved his hand again. “Fay helps. You’d be surprised what she knows. And maybe I’m not out of here so fast, either, who knows? You pick things up. Me and Fay want it, New York goes along. Believe me, that’s how it works.”

Ben looked away, embarrassed, and reached for the water glass on the table. The way it used to work.

“Here,” he said. “Drink a little.”

Lasner took a sip. “There’s no surprise here,” he said. “Don’t tell me that. I see you watching everything, figuring it out. You know what I’m saying.”

Ben looked at him, feeling suddenly winded, caught. Be my son. Something no one had ever asked him before. Otto and Danny, one life passing to the other. He felt as if he were actually being touched, a stroking along his skin. Chosen. For something already decided, no longer in Sol’s hands. And for a second he wondered if it were possible, Bunny’s hold fragile enough to loosen. Would New York really say no to Fay, would Sam? A dying man’s wishes? A fight he might be able to win, if he really wanted to. But even as he imagined it happening, shuffling people in his head, he knew that things had already been arranged in a new order, any attempt to upset them as futile as Lasner’s grandstanding in the hearing room. Sol had already lost the studio. The point now was to salvage the rest.

“We’ve always been straight with each other, haven’t we?” he said.

“Somebody says that, they’re going to start pulling something,” Sol said.

Ben shook his head. “You want to do the right thing for the studio? Call Bunny. He’ll be good at it.”

“He’s a pansy.”

“No,” Ben said, not flinching. “He’s you. He got everything from you. He can do it.”

“And you can’t?”

“Not like him. It’s all he cares about, pictures. Like you. He’s got the instinct.”

“For pictures, maybe. But look with Minot. Just roll over. So who’s going to fight the next one, him? There’s always somebody coming after the studio. You want somebody’s going to fight. You would. I saw you do it for Hal.”

Ben shook his head again. “I don’t even know who the bad guys are anymore.”

Lasner made a face, impatient. “It’s just this business with your brother. Whatever the hell he was up to. It’s not like that. You don’t know what’s right, something like that happens with family.”

“That’s just it. I think everybody’s like him now. Maybe that was the war, too. I think we’re all in-between. Somewhere gray. Pictures were never good at in-between.”

“What, gray? I’m offering you the studio,” Lasner said, his voice rising, a gift so priceless any hesitation seemed crazy.

“Offer it to Bunny, Sol. He can fight. He’s tougher than I am.”

“You’re tough enough to say no. To this. You don’t want this? What do you want?”

He looked around the hospital room. What did he want? He thought of watching Liesl in the pool, of wearing Danny’s clothes, a life that didn’t belong to him.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “Not this.”

“Just like that,” Lasner said, opening his fingers. “The whole goddam world.”

Meaning it, Ben realized, the rest just something vague, east of Gower.

“I want the picture to come out. I want that.”

“There’s some problem with that?” Lasner said, suddenly alert.

“No, no. Bunny wants to give it a big release.” He paused. “Talk to him. He’d appreciate it, I think, coming from you. Personal.”

“Like you did.”

“You know what it means to me? That you asked?” He looked down. “I’ll probably regret it.”

Lasner leaned his head back into the pillow. “That’s what he said, too. Otto. When he took a powder. For Germany, yet. Christ, what a family. If he had stayed here, think where he’d be today.”

At Cedars, Ben thought, the odd transference happening again, listening to the oxygen. Thinking about his credits. Wondering.

Sol closed his eyes.

“I’d better go.”

“Stay a little,” Lasner said, reaching his hand out to anchor Ben’s. Don’t leave me.

Ben felt the hand, still warm but light, as if it were disappearing.

“Think about it,” Lasner said. “You don’t want to decide too quick. Something like this.”

“Okay,” Ben said. Both of them saving face.

He glanced out the window, feeling claustrophobic. Another hospital room. His mother had held on to him, too. Danny. Now Sol— Otto—whoever he was. One more loss. How many people could you lose before there was no one left?

He stayed like that for a while, watching Sol’s face, almost expecting the shallow breathing to stop, both of them at an end. You could hear the footsteps outside, rubber-soled, nurses answering calls. Just like the ones outside Danny’s room, Dieter waiting in the hall. Picturing it over and over in his head, making the final cut. Not all deaths are alike. Then even the footsteps stopped, the hospital asleep. How long should he stay? Fay would want to be here. He slid his hand out from under, a silent good-bye. Sol opened his eyes again.

“What do you want?” he said, still puzzled, a real question.

Ben stood there for a second, then patted Sol’s hand. “I want you to get some rest,” he said, because it was better not to say anything else.

W
AR
B
RIDE
would be over now so he headed straight to the Grove. The afterparty was even more lavish than the premiere, fake palm trees this time but an orchestra and passing trays of champagne glasses. Liesl was being photographed yet again, hundreds of pictures tonight alone. Primitive peoples thought one could rob the soul.

“I wonder what her mother would have said,” Ostermann said, making conversation, but stiff. “All this. Your own child. You’re well? I haven’t seen you since Dieter’s funeral.”

An endless afternoon in Pasadena, all the émigrés, long tributes from faculty members, flowers from Continental. Henderson deep in the back, just to see who came.

“She’s a success,” Ben said, nodding toward the photographers.

“Maybe it takes her mind off things. It’s a difficult time for her. She was his favorite. Always spoiling her.”

Ben thought of her looking down, the gun still in her hand. Another thing that had never happened. The camera bolt loose in the rigging, nobody’s fault.

“I wish I’d known him better,” Ben said, a polite phrase, now surreal.

“I’ve been wondering—you don’t mind? When you asked me about the hospital. Daniel. Why did you want to know?”

Ben shrugged. “Loose ends. I was remembering that day, and then I couldn’t. Like a crossword you can’t finish. It bothered me, that’s all.”

“Ah,” Ostermann said, looking at him blankly, a translation he didn’t quite get.

“Don’t mention it to Liesl. I think it still upsets her, thinking about it.”

“Yes, but you know one has to be sensible. It was a mercy. So much brain damage. All the doctors said. He would have been—what? Who knows? But not himself.”

“Still. Her husband.”

“And your brother,” Ostermann said slowly, wanting to say something, then deciding to hold back instead. “Ah, Liesl.”

“Salka’s looking for you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

Ben could smell her perfume, something new. Her hair was shiny, lit up, and he thought of Paulette on the train, the same glow. Movie stars. She turned to face him, suddenly awkward.

“How have you been?”

“Congratulations,” he said, taking in the party.

“You moved from that place,” she said, ignoring this.

“I’m bunking in with Hal. Until the picture’s out. Then I’m going
back,” he said, a decision just made, but clear, as if someone had turned on a light. “Work for the newsreel.”

“Back? To Germany?”

“Wherever they send me,” he said, suddenly filling up with it, the whole world east of Gower, where it wouldn’t matter what Polly thought, whether Minot held a grudge, if you knew things you shouldn’t know. Where everyone else lived.

“You’re leaving here?” Liesl said.

“The picture’s finished. There’s no reason to stay.”

“Maybe it’s better,” Ostermann said, then, self-conscious, began to back away. “Well, I’ll find Salka.”

“What did he mean?” Ben said, watching him go.

“He doesn’t understand. The newspaper, what you said about Daniel. How you could do it. I can’t explain. You know it’s one of those things we can’t talk about.”

“Danny was spying on him.”

“But to tell a newspaper—it’s confusing to him.”

“People always made excuses for Danny.”

“Maybe we all need that. Someone to make excuses.” She bit her lower lip. “Why are you leaving?”

“Too many people to avoid. It’s easier to get out of the way.”

She said nothing for a minute, taking this in. “You can’t even look at me anymore. I always thought, a secret, it makes people closer, but it’s the opposite. That’s all we’re going to see now, when we look at each other. What happened.”

“Let’s not talk about it. It didn’t happen, remember?”

“That’s why you never come to the house anymore?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me. After everything. The things I said in the office.” He looked over to her. “I made a mistake. I’m sorry. But that doesn’t count for much, does it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. To think that. You must have—” He stopped, meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. Not about anything.”

He was still for a second then looked away, uncomfortable. “I have to go.”

“Not like this. Come with me a minute.” She began pulling him away from the club floor.

“The party’s for you.”

“For them. No one will notice. Come.”

They went down the side hall to the parking lot entrance. Outside, the same scent of orange trees, the row of palms outlined beyond the cars.

“We’ve been here before,” he said, the memory of it tangible.

“Yes. And then up with Dieter. And all the time he—” She broke off and reached up, putting her hand behind his neck.

“What are you doing?” he said, feeling her breath.

“We can’t leave it like this. I know you. Why you said those things. You know what I remember? You said, ‘Was any of it real?’ So bitter. You already knew the answer. But it’s wrong. It was real. I never lied to you.”

“You just pretended I was someone else. Maybe I did, too.”

She looked down. “Always the same. Always putting him there. He wasn’t.”

“You’re in love with him.”

“What a boy you are,” she said, moving her hand across the back of his head, smoothing his hair. “You think it’s like
War Bride
. Love forever. But how can it be like that? Nothing is like that. You know, when we first left home, left Germany, I thought it’s all finished for me, everything. But then Vienna. France. All right, it’s somewhere new. Not the same, but I can live here. I think it’s like that. Not the same. Another place. But you can live there for a while. And you don’t forget it, it’s something special to you, somewhere you lived.”

He looked at her, silent, his skin alive with her again. “As long as it lasts.”

She smiled weakly, her hand moving to the side of his face. “It’s not enough for you? A place you can live? There was no one else there. Nobody was like you, the way it felt. It was different. When I was next to
you, the way we used to lie there, it wasn’t somebody else. How could it be? It was you.”

“And now it isn’t.”

“No,” she said softly. “Not anymore.” She leaned into him, putting her head down.

“Liesl—”

“Just stay for a minute like this, like before.”

He felt her against him, as natural as his own skin, and for a second he was weightless, not holding on to anything, falling. All he would have to do was lift her head. Another second passed, suspended, then he leaned down, kissed her hair, and stepped back.

“It can’t be like before. Not now.”

She looked away, then nodded. “I know. I just don’t want to forget. The way it is now, that’s not how it always was. Maybe I want you to remember, too. Someday—I don’t know, we’ll be in a room somewhere.” Setting a scene, her voice caught up in it. “Years from now, an accident. And you see me. I want you to think, I used to live there once. It was nice.”

He stood for a minute, unable to move, in the scene with her. “I’ll remember,” he said finally.

She opened her mouth to speak and then stopped, out of lines. Instead she nodded, then kissed him lightly on the cheek, a good-bye. “Let’s not say any more, then,” she said.

“No,” he said, watching her turn and move to the door.

Secrets didn’t bring you closer. He thought of all the things he’d never say now, things only he would know. How he went over that day in the hospital in his mind, working out its choreography, who was where, until finally he thought he knew, and then asked Ostermann to make sure, that Dieter had always been with him, never alone. That only she had been in the room. That all deaths were not alike, that some secrets had to be kept. That she was the only place he’d ever lived.

He heard the band music through the door. No one would miss him. He drove to the Egyptian to catch the late showing. The picture
had already started, so he slipped into a back row. A scene he’d already been in, Liesl looking up at him, luminous, catching all the light. “I don’t care,” she said, eyes darting, her face soft with love. She leaned forward to kiss the GI and the audience seemed to lean forward with her. No sound, not even a gum wrapper. “I don’t care.” Everyone in the scene now, wanting her. Thinking she was wonderful.

S
TARDUST
IS A
work of fiction, not history, and readers familiar with the period will see that liberties, a few chronological, have been taken with events that inspired some of its scenes. Labor unrest in Hollywood actually began before the war was over, in early 1945, but reached its most violent stage in the fall, as in the street brawl here. An information film about the Nuremberg trials,
That Justice Be Done,
was released in October 1945, but no feature film about the death camps themselves
was ever made or, so far as I know, contemplated. (A rough documentary compilation of captured newsreels about the camps,
We Accuse,
was released in May 1945.) Minot’s hearings are meant to be a premature trial run, a preview, of HUAC’s assault on Hollywood in 1947, but even in 1945 Representative Rankin had announced the committee’s intention to investigate Hollywood, “one of the most dangerous plots ever instigated for the overthrow of this government,” and California state senator Tenney’s fourteen thousand files had been compiled during the war and were certainly in place then. Jack Warner did indeed become a friendly witness but for reasons of his own, not those suggested here. No studio head, in fact, ever stood up to the committee. After a meeting in November 1947 at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, some fifty studio executives issued the anti-Communist Waldorf Statement, effectively starting a blacklist that would last for a decade. Sol Lasner’s principled stand here is imagined, something that might have happened in the movies.