until they are all dead. Olga is always sick for two days after he's been here. It upsets her stomach, you know. She feels so sorry for the poor little animals. Besides, she is always going to the doctor because of her toes."
The telephone rang.
Kathe jumped for the receiver.
"Hello!" She practically cowered when she heard his voice. "Yes, yes it's me, Walter ... yes ... I hope I did the right thing ... here he is ..." She held out the receiver to me. It was wet with perspiration.
"This is Peter Jordan."
"Good evening, Mr. Jordan." The voice was deep and somewhat mocking. I knew this voice. From where? "Were you in the movies when you were a child? Are you the famous child star?"
"Yes."
"You wanted to speak to me?"
"Yes." This voice. Why did it sound so familiar?
"Have you a car?"
"Yes."
*TCathe wiH explain how to go. Fm in Reinbeck. It is southeast of Hamburg. Just before you reach the village, you will see an old cemetery. Wait there for me."
"AU right."
"Just one word of warning. Unless you are alone, you won't see me. You can be here in forty-five minutes."
I replaced the receiver. I asked Kathe to explain how to get there.
"Have you a piece of paper?"
I looked for some in my wallet. Shirley's photograph fell out. Kathe picked it up. "Is that your love?"
"Here is paper."
"I hope you are going to be happy with your love, if you'll really help Walter and me," said Kathe.
I drove toward Liibeck and Travemunde.
Houses now were lower, streetlights rarer. I saw few people. The waning moon shed its unreal light where no shadows seemed to exist. I drove along a canal, along railroad tracks. Roads were poorer now and had large potholes.
Then I passed the last houses. Tree trunks were close to the sides of the road, crippled, black, and fearsome. Locomotives whistled. Dogs barked. I drove through a few small villages. In the yellow light of my car beams, I read signs: rothenburgsort, tiefstack, moorfleth. Out here, I heard the storm again, pushing and pressing against the car. The time on my dashboard showed eight-fifty.
I opened a window. It smelled of brackish water and peat. Then I saw the low white wall and beyond it stone crosses. The old wrought iron door was hanging crookedly in its hinges. I saw withered flowers, dead grass, and wreaths.
I stopped the car. I switched off my headlights and used the parking lights. Somewhere behind those tree trunks, behind that waU, was Dr. Schauberg who surely had good reason to be so cautious of his guests.
The storm chased leaves, branches, flowers across the cemetery. It brought to mind the cemetery scene when I, as a little boy, played Oliver Twist. That other cemetery had been built in the studio in California. Black earth had been brought. Machines made the storm, special-effects men, the fog. Lights with complicated lenses produced the eerie Ught. Only to the eye of the camera was that other cemetery deserted, for behind the lights, behind the machines, were about eighty people: electricians, prop
98
men, script girls, cutters, my mother, my director, sound trucks, generators, mobile wardrobes.
And yet, at every new take that night, I had to fight fear and ice-cold terror which no one tried to calm. They were all delighted at how real my terror came across.
I did not only think of this while I was waiting here for Dr. Schauberg, but also of two hours last May. Of an afternoon when I replayed my OUver Twist.
In Pacific PaUsades, in the large house where I lived with Joan and Shirley, I had sixteen-millimeter copies of all my films, which I often watched in the viewing room.
On that hot afternoon in May, I watched my past, my Oliver Twist. Heavy drapes kept out the daylight, the life of 1959.
Inside, m the cool darkness, it was 1934.1, thirty-seven years old, on a couch next to the whirring projector, watched the silver screen where I, then twelve years old, a lonely, frightened Oliver Twist evading criminals, stumbled across that storm-whipped
The telephone rang.
Kathe jumped for the receiver.
"Hello!" She practically cowered when she heard his voice. "Yes, yes it's me, Walter ... yes ... I hope I did the right thing ... here he is ..." She held out the receiver to me. It was wet with perspiration.
"This is Peter Jordan."
"Good evening, Mr. Jordan." The voice was deep and somewhat mocking. I knew this voice. From where? "Were you in the movies when you were a child? Are you the famous child star?"
"Yes."
"You wanted to speak to me?"
"Yes." This voice. Why did it sound so familiar?
"Have you a car?"
"Yes."
*TCathe wiH explain how to go. Fm in Reinbeck. It is southeast of Hamburg. Just before you reach the village, you will see an old cemetery. Wait there for me."
"AU right."
"Just one word of warning. Unless you are alone, you won't see me. You can be here in forty-five minutes."
I replaced the receiver. I asked Kathe to explain how to get there.
"Have you a piece of paper?"
I looked for some in my wallet. Shirley's photograph fell out. Kathe picked it up. "Is that your love?"
"Here is paper."
"I hope you are going to be happy with your love, if you'll really help Walter and me," said Kathe.
I drove toward Liibeck and Travemunde.
Houses now were lower, streetlights rarer. I saw few people. The waning moon shed its unreal light where no shadows seemed to exist. I drove along a canal, along railroad tracks. Roads were poorer now and had large potholes.
Then I passed the last houses. Tree trunks were close to the sides of the road, crippled, black, and fearsome. Locomotives whistled. Dogs barked. I drove through a few small villages. In the yellow light of my car beams, I read signs: rothenburgsort, tiefstack, moorfleth. Out here, I heard the storm again, pushing and pressing against the car. The time on my dashboard showed eight-fifty.
I opened a window. It smelled of brackish water and peat. Then I saw the low white wall and beyond it stone crosses. The old wrought iron door was hanging crookedly in its hinges. I saw withered flowers, dead grass, and wreaths.
I stopped the car. I switched off my headlights and used the parking lights. Somewhere behind those tree trunks, behind that waU, was Dr. Schauberg who surely had good reason to be so cautious of his guests.
The storm chased leaves, branches, flowers across the cemetery. It brought to mind the cemetery scene when I, as a little boy, played Oliver Twist. That other cemetery had been built in the studio in California. Black earth had been brought. Machines made the storm, special-effects men, the fog. Lights with complicated lenses produced the eerie Ught. Only to the eye of the camera was that other cemetery deserted, for behind the lights, behind the machines, were about eighty people: electricians, prop
98
men, script girls, cutters, my mother, my director, sound trucks, generators, mobile wardrobes.
And yet, at every new take that night, I had to fight fear and ice-cold terror which no one tried to calm. They were all delighted at how real my terror came across.
I did not only think of this while I was waiting here for Dr. Schauberg, but also of two hours last May. Of an afternoon when I replayed my OUver Twist.
In Pacific PaUsades, in the large house where I lived with Joan and Shirley, I had sixteen-millimeter copies of all my films, which I often watched in the viewing room.
On that hot afternoon in May, I watched my past, my Oliver Twist. Heavy drapes kept out the daylight, the life of 1959.
Inside, m the cool darkness, it was 1934.1, thirty-seven years old, on a couch next to the whirring projector, watched the silver screen where I, then twelve years old, a lonely, frightened Oliver Twist evading criminals, stumbled across that storm-whipped
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