A Touch of Stardust (28 page)

“Were you there often?”

“As much as I could be. It was a happier place than with my parents. Anyhow, my mother died that year.”

She heard the ache of memory in his voice, and waited.

With an effort, he lightened his tone. “You know the best thing? There was a chocolate factory nearby. On the days they were cooking it up, the kids in the neighborhood—including me—would sit on the curb, salivating at the smell, dreaming of gorging on it.”

“Did you get any of it?”

“Well, sure. My grandparents weren’t torturers.” He took a lock of her hair in his hand and tugged it playfully. “Once a week, my grandfather and I marched down there, and I was given the excruciating pleasure of picking out a whole box of chocolate pieces. Damn, it was hard to choose. But I managed.”

“You love them very much.”

“When I was with them I was home,” he said simply. “More than in New Jersey.”

“You haven’t told me this.”

“I don’t like nostalgia—and the Berlin I know is gone,” he said. “Now I’m afraid they are, too.”

She was silent for a moment. “What have you heard?” she asked.

“I’ve found out they’ve been sent to one of the camps. A place near Munich called Dachau. They were getting used to petty, harassing arrests, and I was hoping it was just another one.” He reached for another cigarette. “Why didn’t I haul them out of there? Christ, I knew the Nazis don’t like any Jews, especially those who write history books.”

She leaned closer, cupping her hand over his cheek. “Maybe because they were never doddering old people to you, and you respected their ability to determine their own lives.”

He stared at her, at first almost uncomprehending. Then his face softened. “Thanks for trying,” he said.

By ten, Andy was asleep on the sofa. She watched him, a little surprised at the number of drinks he had consumed. It wasn’t his usual pattern. His mood had lightened as they put dinner together, making small jokes and passing on the latest gossip from the “
Gone
with the Wind
wars,” as he liked to put it. Selznick was complaining that Vivien’s eye shadow wasn’t green enough, and calling the makeup people at three every morning, demanding so much green eye shadow that it flaked into her eyes; she was furious. Andy made it funny, but his glass stayed refilled more often than usual.

She stared at the sink. The remains of their scrambled eggs lay crusted in a small iron frying pan. She would wash it later. Good thing she had brought clothes for Monday—Carole’s car was in the Selznick studio parking lot for Clark to take home, and Andy was in no condition to drive.

Gathering her clothes, she looked ruefully down at poor Carole’s rumpled and stained green jacket. Well, it had been quite a day.

She leaned over and kissed Andy gently on his eyelids. There was nothing to do but offer whatever meager comfort she could.

The house was silent now, except for Andy’s rhythmic snoring. Her thoughts turned to Monday. She had a real writing job. She could breathe now; she could stop and absorb the news. She felt a pulsating surge of excitement. She would take whatever Abe Goldman pushed at her and she would do it well. She would make them sit up and take notice; she would make Frances Marion proud of her.

Andy turned on his side. Almost guiltily, she pulled her thoughts back and stroked his hand. Right now she was here, with this complicated, elusive man she loved. She curled up next to him on the sofa, pushing away thoughts about what was coming, about walking through those intimidating gates at MGM wearing a badge that would give her a professional identity for the first time in her life.

Think about it later, not now.

Truly, there was nowhere else at this moment she would rather be than here, with Andy.

It was the same guard at the gate of MGM as before, peering out at her on this drizzly Monday morning. But when she smiled tentatively, he gave back only a blank stare.

“Name?” he barked.

“Julie Crawford. I’m supposed to get my badge from you.” I work here now, she wanted to add, but restrained herself.

He shuffled papers, shaking his head. “No badge here with that name,” he said.

“I’m sure there is,” she said. “Frances Marion told me—”

“Oh yeah, you’re one of her girls.” He shuffled some more, then, almost reluctantly, pulled out a bright-red-and-blue badge with her name typed on it in uppercase letters. “Don’t lose this,” he warned. “You’ll be thrown out in a minute if you do.”

She assured him she wouldn’t, pinning it to her jacket. It was her own jacket this time, not one cut as fashionably as Carole’s, maybe even a bit staid, but at least it looked serious. She smiled to herself, thinking of Andy’s advice this morning, when she pulled it from her bag.

“Wear it without a blouse. Abe Goldman would like that,” he teased.

She’d laughed, touched at his effort to relax her. A whole weekend, most of it curled up with him in bed, not wanting it ever to end. But now it was Monday. Stockings; be careful, only pair; snap them
into the garter belt. Wiggle into skirt; button blouse; don jacket. Buttoned or unbuttoned? Buttoned. Comb hair. Eye makeup. Rouge. Coral lipstick—or did the color look too bright?

“Go for it, Julie girl,” Andy said quietly as she picked up her purse and gave him a smile. He yawned, reached for his trousers, and pulled them on. “If I can find my shirt somewhere in the bedding, your chauffeur is ready.”

And now here she was, blinking at the red-and-blue badge, which had just torn a hole in her jacket.

“Don’t you know how to put that badge on?” the guard barked again. “Jesus. Women.”

“Where do I report?” she asked, putting a snap into her voice. She wasn’t going to cringe before this bully.

“Same. Room 632, Writers’ Building. That’s where all you writers go.”

As she turned away and walked through the MGM entrance, she consoled herself with the reminder that she didn’t like the jacket anyway, and the badge would hide the tear.

The main street into the studio was almost deserted this morning, probably because the dreary rain falling from dull skies seemed to have no intention of stopping soon. She took to watching her feet after stepping into an unexpected puddle. She reached the Writers’ Building, climbed the stairs to Room 632, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. She wasn’t late—in fact, she was early—but every seat at the table except one already held an occupant, and the haze in the air and the butts in the ashtrays confirmed they had been there for some time.

“Come in, come in, Julie, not to worry, we’ve been getting a little bit of a head start,” boomed the voice of Abe Goldman. He leaned back in his chair, hooking his thumbs around a pair of bright-green suspenders pulled tight over his paunch. He wore no jacket. A large black dog lay curled at his feet, eyes closed, muzzle tucked deep into its thick fur. On a back table, Julie noticed for the first time an array of typewriters lined up and spaced precisely a foot or so apart, looking like soldiers at attention. “Okay if I call you Julie? We’re all
family here, hon. Right, Bill?” He looked to his left. Bill, the doleful one she had dubbed the coroner last time, nodded.

She sat down, to Goldman’s left, folding her hands together on the table before her, not knowing what else to do with them.

“This is thinking-cap time, Julie,” he said. “We need your ideas for our movie. Bill, hand this girl a notebook and pencil, will you?”

“What movie?” she asked, quickly taking the proffered equipment. She felt fully alert and ready.

“The one you’ve been hired to work on,” Goldman said with a tiny tinge of impatience. “Gangsters, a sure bet.”

Bill spoke up with a croak. “If we time it right, we can get Wallace Beery for this one.”

Julie could almost hear Andy chuckle: this was just what he had predicted.

“He’s too tough to work with,” chimed in a new face at the end of the table.

“We can center it on a prison riot,” said Bill.

“But wasn’t that
The Big House
?” Julie asked, puzzled. That was one of Frances Marion’s big successes years ago, and Wallace Beery had starred in it. Would they really be considering the same plot device and actor again?

“Nothing at all like that one,” broke in Goldman, with a wave of his hand. “We’ve got something totally unique in mind. A breakthrough movie. Forget Beery—we’ll get Jackie Cooper. This will be great; you’re lucky to be working on this one. You can’t imagine how many films made around here are so bad they’re unreleasable. We just stash them away. So let’s get some ideas.” He looked at her expectantly; she noticed his nose had a greasy shine.

Julie took another deep breath. Four of the men at the end of the table were scribbling fast on their tablets, glancing up periodically, brows furrowed. Was she supposed to be doing the same?

“Well, I’ve been thinking, given what’s happening in Europe, isn’t it a good time for a war movie?” she said.

She saw their jaws drop, saw the glances shot in Abe Goldman’s direction.

“Just what do you have in mind?” he said, his voice suddenly frosty.

“Nothing specific. Something on the Nazis, maybe from the perspective of an American caught there or with relatives there, maybe an updated version of
I Was a Captive of Nazi Germany
—”

Goldman cut her off. “That ’36 disaster? The Hollywood girl caught by the Nazis? You think we’re
crazy
? Heads rolled over that one. Look, the Nazis leave us alone; we leave them alone. Hey, honey, we need better than
that
.”

She tried again. “I saw in the morning paper—”

“Look, let’s get back to the real world. The papers deal with Hitler, not the movie industry. No war news.” His eyes were narrowing.

“Okay,” she said with a twinge of desperation. “So it’s a prison movie. Maybe not just about bad guys, but there could be somebody unjustly convicted who is trying to get better treatment.…” Just throw it out; you can do this, she told herself.

“That’s great,” Goldman said. He looked at his watch. “Good. Just one favor before you get to work?” He smiled widely at Julie. “Old Sammy here needs to do his business. There’s a path and bushes out the back door—mind taking him for a quick walk? Make sure he doesn’t poop on the sidewalk.”

Julie, flustered, looked at the dog, whose ears had pricked up at the sound of his name. He looked gentle enough. What could she say? “Okay,” she managed.

Goldman pointed to the typewriters, nodding at the line of scribbling men before him. As one, they stood and moved over to the typewriters on the back table. The clatter of keys began almost instantly.

“See the end machine? That’s yours,” he said. “Let’s get brainstorming; then we’ll pound out the details.”

Julie nodded silently. She leaned down, touching the dog’s neck, feeling for the collar—hoping for a leash. The dog looked up at her with melancholy eyes. As if to apologize.

By the time Julie sat down in front of her designated typewriter half an hour later, the others were pounding away as if inspired. They’re way ahead of me, she thought, feeling a rise of panic. What was she supposed to do? Somebody unjustly convicted. Her idea, right? Tentatively she tried a paragraph: Joe—that’s a good enough name—Joe O’leary is in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. She paused. Maybe he was put in solitary after—after a food fight? She didn’t know much about prisons or gangsters; she had to keep trying. If she sat here staring at the almost blank page, she would look like an idiot. Write something.