Stardust (11 page)

“And the film.”

She nodded, accepting tribute.

“Of course, not serious art, like Mahler. Gropius.” Listing former lovers like credits. “But it’s important here, to have a success. It’s what they respect. And of course it’s nice, too, to be comfortable. Look at poor Heinrich. In Germany such an important name. I remember passing a bookstore, a whole window, all Kaltenbach, no one else. And here? No one knows who he is.”

“The books aren’t translated?”

“No. Franz, Lion, Hans of course,” she said, tipping her head toward Liesl. “But Heinrich, it’s too European maybe. So it’s hard for him. We all help a little. Not charity, we tell him, a loan until better times, but of course he’s proud. Once in all the windows. Liesl said you were just in Germany?”

“Yes,” Ben said, surprised at the veering off.

“It’s bad there, everyone says. Heinrich wants to go back. ‘I want to be a writer again,’“ she said, quoting, but shaking her head. “Well, you know what it’s like. I had a letter. My friend Beate. She says people are like zombies. Numb.”

“They’re hungry,” Ben said.

“Yes, hungry,” Alma said, not even glancing at her own plate. “But not reading. Not reading Heinrich.”

“They will again. Someday. Let’s hope so anyway.”

She looked up quickly, as if she had been corrected.

“But not here, I think. He doesn’t have the popular touch, Heinrich. Like your brother. He had the popular touch. Detectives,” she said airily, sliding it in as easily as a pinprick. “Heinrich is an artist.”

They were rescued by Kaltenbach, slightly hunched, like a courtier, who came to say their car had arrived.

“You’ll excuse us? These cars, they don’t like to wait. Such delicious food,” he said to Liesl. “But you must be tired. All these people. You should rest.”

“Yes,” Alma said. “It must be terrible for you.” She paused, another prick. “So unexpected.”

She patted Liesl’s arm, then nodded at Ben and handed him her plate, leading Kaltenbach across the room, tipping her head to people as she went. Just a hand on his elbow, enough to move him along. Ben stared at it. To push a man over you’d need a tighter grip. Had Danny screamed? He must have. At least a startled grunt. Only suicides made no noise, grim with purpose, not taken by surprise. Nobody had said. But it might be in the police report.

“Is something wrong?” Liesl said, peering at him.

“Sorry,” he said, snapping back. “Is she always like that?”

“You don’t like her?” Liesl said, a mock innocence, then laughed, the first time Ben had seen her really smile. She covered her mouth with her hand, a girl’s gesture.

The police report. Tomorrow.

They went out on the terrace, picking up wine glasses off a passing tray.

“Daniel didn’t like her, either.”

“What did they see in her?” Stay on Alma. “Kokoschka. Mahler. She had half the men in Vienna.”

“She used to be a great beauty they say.”

“Who says?”

She laughed again. “She does, mostly.”

He looked at her, caught by the laugh. It seemed to come from some private part of her, something you only saw in glimpses, like her ease in the water.

“I shouldn’t,” she said, putting the drink down. “They’ve only started coffee.”

“It’s going by itself now,” he said. “You can sit one out.”

She glanced up, working out the idiom, then took a sip of wine.

“Did you notice? They don’t talk about him. Anything else. They’re embarrassed.”

“How are you doing?” he said, a private question.

“Well, Alma’s gone, so that’s one thing,” she said, evading it. “Now there’s only my father to worry about.” She nodded toward the end of the pool where two men were smoking cigars. “He always quarrels with my uncle. Well, not always. Then it’s like this, polite.”

“Quarrels about what?”

“Germany. Dieter says my father blames the people. You know the article he wrote. The German character. And how can you blame the people? It was Hitler. So back and forth. They’re all like that,” she said, looking around. “Their house burned down and they argue about why it happened.”

“But it’s important. To know why it happened.”

“You think so? I don’t know. It doesn’t change anything. It’s gone. They all want to go back. But to the old days.
Heimat
.”

“Do you?”

“Me? I almost died there once. You don’t get rescued twice, I think.
Who would marry me next time?” She tried to smile, then looked away, restive again. “Well. There’s Salka waving so Mann must be leaving. He’ll expect—oh god, not Polly.”

She was looking toward the pool again, where Polly Marks had wedged herself between the brothers-in-law.

“Who’s the guy in the gray suit? Do you know? I saw him at the funeral.”

“He came with her—I suppose he works for her.”

Ben smiled to himself. “I thought he was a cop.”

“A police? Why police?” she said, her head jerking around.

“But he wasn’t. Just a legman.”

“Why would you think that?” she said.

He looked at her, but this wasn’t the time, not with people around them, not with nothing more to offer than a feeling and the wrong bottle.

“I’ll go play referee,” he said, heading toward the pool.

The group at the end, like actors in a silent, were telling the story with their bodies—Ostermann leaning away from Polly, who was cornering him with attention, her back to his brother-in-law, the legman off to the side, smoking and watching them with the same quiet sweep he’d used at the funeral.

“Hello again,” Ben said to Polly, interrupting them.

She turned in mid-sentence, caught slightly off guard, trying to place him.

“Ben,” Ostermann said, cueing her.

But Polly had already found him in her mental file and only gave him a quick nod before she went back to Ostermann. “They sure sound like a front to me. You think it’s all innocent—I’m for world peace, too, who isn’t?—and the next thing you know they’re using you. Your reputation.” The same rushed voice, quivering.

“Do you think I’m so famous?” he said gently, making light conversation. “No.”

“You’re not just anybody, you know that. Your name speaks—”

“I tell him he has to be careful,” Dieter said.

Polly didn’t even turn, brushing this off with a blink. A relative from Pasadena.

“You listen to Polly,” she said. “Warners doesn’t buy just anybody. If you have
any
doubts, people asking to use your name, call me. I’ve been here a long time. Turning over rocks.”

“That’s very kind,” Ostermann said flatly. “To take so much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. I love this country.”

“As we do,” he said, a courtly half bow. “Who took us in?”

“Terrible about all this, isn’t it?” she said, looking back at the house. “I don’t know how Liesl does it. So strong.” She shook her head. “Of course he was no angel, but I’m not one to speak ill of the dead.”

“No.”

She took his hand and patted it, oddly flirtatious. “Glad we could talk. We’ll have lunch soon.” She looked at Ben. “You never mentioned you were going to Continental,” she said, a black mark, holding out, all that needed to be said.

Without being signaled, the man in the gray suit slipped away from the oleander and followed her.

“So it begins,” Ostermann said slowly. “Enemies everywhere. I wondered what would happen when they won. Now look. Like Germany last time, when we lost. ‘I love my country.’ That’s what they said in Berlin, remember?” This to Dieter, who looked at Ben.

“Hans is writing about that time, so it’s all he thinks about.” Then, to Ostermann, “Don’t pack your bags yet. It’s not the same.”

“It starts the same. I remember it.”

“When you’ve been here as long as I have—”

“When did you come?” Ben said.

“ ’Thirty-seven. With Trude. I wanted Hans to bring Anna, too. It was still possible then. Perhaps if they hadn’t waited, things would have turned out differently.”

Ostermann went stiff, annoyed, evidently a sore point between them, the sister who died.

“But we’re all here now,” Dieter said, making peace.

“You don’t want to go back?” Ben said, testing Liesl’s theory.

“Now? My work is here. All my colleagues. Hitler was a catastrophe for German science, but a gift to America.”

“You’re a scientist?” Ben said, surprised. Not in pictures, not even connected. Another California.

“No, no,” he said, diffident. “A teacher. Mathematics.”

“A teacher,” Ostermann said playfully. “Very distinguished. In Germany, a doctor doctor.”

“But not at Cal Tech,” Dieter said pleasantly. “One doctor only.”

“Thank you for being there,” Ben said. “At the hospital.”

Dieter nodded. “You know what he liked? The observatory. On Mount Wilson. Not the science of it. He was like Hans here—everything a mystery, even the simplest numbers. But he liked to see the stars. It’s a good lens, you know, a hundred inches, the largest. Would you like to go sometime? It was hard during the war, but now we can take visitors again. You have to stay over. The road is too dangerous at night.”

“You mean camp there?”

“No, we have places to stay. Dormitories for the staff. A few rooms for guests. It used to be very popular, with the other stars,” he said, smiling. “Hubble liked to take them up. Fairbanks, Pickford, all of them. You can see the pictures. So if you like, I’ll arrange it. A family excursion. But now—” He looked around, ready to go. “A sad occasion. It’s a pity you did not get a chance—”

“No, only at the hospital. For a minute.”

“He spoke?”

Ben shook his head, not wanting to go back.

“No last words. I’m sorry,” Dieter said, taking Ben’s hand. “So we’ll make a trip. Hans,” he said, now reaching for Ostermann’s hand, “be well. You should listen to her, you know. That woman. No petitions. No letters in the paper. It draws attention to all of us.”

Ostermann watched him leave, a politer version of Alma’s exit, then sighed and busied himself relighting his cigar.

“More American than the Americans. Except for the accent. He
thinks no one hears it.” He nodded toward the city below, spread across the flat basin. “Look at that. You know, every building you see, it’s the first. There was nothing on this land before. Imagine. In Europe we live on layers. Here it’s only the first. So what will it become? It’s interesting. But do any of us care? We don’t really live here. I’m still in Berlin. My study even, it’s like before. Writing
1919
. You like the title? Just the year. No one here will be interested, it’s for me. What happened to us. Mann’s writing Bible stories. Bible stories after all this. The conscience of his country.”

“I thought that was you.”

He smiled a little. “The bad conscience maybe. I’m sorry. Such gloomy talk. Your brother used to call it the exile mentality. Always half-empty. But it was different for him. He never had to worry about leaving. Being asked to leave. He was born here. Sometimes I think we got out with our skins but our lives—they’re somewhere in-between. Still waiting for the knock.”

“Not here.”

“We’re still watched.” He caught Ben’s skeptical look and nodded. “We’re German, we have a sixth sense for this now. The phone I think sometimes, the mail I know.”

“Really?”

“There’s a group, more exiles, in Mexico—it was easier to get a visa there. So they write to me sometimes and I think the letters are being read. You know, opened and resealed. So, a test. I tell them to write in English and you know what? The letters arrive three days earlier—the censor doesn’t have to translate. So I know.”

“But why? Did they think you were a Nazi? You?”

Ostermann smiled weakly. “Anybody foreign. There’s no logic to this. It’s like Polly. You start turning over rocks, you have to find something, or why did you start? So you keep doing it. I’m used to it. In Germany it was the same—well, worse. But you have to be careful. You say things and it might go against you with Immigration. It’s better since the war, but Brecht says they’re still watching him. Even now.” He shook his head. “Such a dangerous person. In Santa Monica.” He
moved away from the potted geraniums, taking a chair and leaning back in it, his eyes still on the view. “It’s an irony, yes? What we came to escape. Like poor Connie Veidt, playing Nazis. They wanted to kill him there, and then here it was all he can do, be a Nazi. It was the voice. Like Liesl.”

“Like Liesl?” Ben said, confused.

“The accent. You know she was an actress. Small theaters only, but good, I think. Of course the father says that. But Salka says she had talent. And then we left and she lost her voice.”

“Couldn’t Danny get her work?”

“Here? Even Lorre, an actor like that, couldn’t play American.” He smiled. “Mr. Moto. A Japanese. A girl with a German accent? Not so many parts for her. And you know, I think Daniel liked her at home. So she gave it up. Became the
Hausfrau
.”

“And your translator.”

“Yes,” Ostermann said, looking up. “A help to me, too, I admit. And now? It’s a worry. When someone dies this way, you think, I never knew him. You turn it over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of it.”

“Yes,” Ben said, an almost involuntary response.

“Everything becomes a lie. Your own life. I don’t want that for her.”

“But everything wasn’t.”

“No, not everything. But which?” He drew on the cigar. “How little we know about each other,” he said, brooding. “Even when we think we know.”

A
T THE POLICE
station he was directed to a basement room that resembled a post office will-call window, with rows of files behind.

“Accident report? Kohler?”

“You’re with the insurance?”

“His brother.”

“Companies usually get it direct. Not through the family.”

“But I could see it?”

“You could ask,” the clerk said, then got tired of himself and went to get the folder.

In fact, there was little Ben didn’t already know. A more precise time. No eyewitnesses to the fall itself. Neighbors alerted by the sounds of garbage cans knocked over when the body hit, an unexpected detail. No scream. At least none reported. Police response time. Alcohol in the room (dizzy spells not even necessary here—already unsteady). Taken to Hollywood Presbyterian with head injuries and multiple lacerations. Several boxes with numbers and acronyms for internal use. Everything consistent.