American Dreams (73 page)

'I must warn you about the concluding footage. I filmed it in Belgium last summer. To prevent discovery by the Germans I hid in a hayloft with my camera.'

The field appeared, the half dozen hostages and their executioners.

'If the pictures are too harrowing, please turn away. I assure you this is real.

This is the face of the enemy who threatens democracy wherever it exists.'

¦

As the first bayonet stabbed into the first victim, Paul heard gasps.

Someone in the gallery cried, 'No.' A man in the third row dragged his wife to the aisle and left. Others stood in the orchestra, gathering their wraps.

And this was pro-British New York.

The scene ended. The projection lamp darkened. Paul was left alone in the arc light. Unnerved by the exodus, he started his brief closing remarks, an exhortation to the audience to look clearly at the question of U.S.

intervention. He declared an urgent need for it, but he stumbled over the words from his note cards and finished weakly. The curtain came down to feeble applause.

In the wings the stage manager congratulated him in a halfhearted way and disappeared. Paul went to the dingy dressing room. Marguerite was supposed to be waiting. There was no sign of her; the doorkeeper said he hadn't seen her. After twenty minutes Paul trudged across Fourteenth Street to Liichow's. The restaurant's noise and good cheer depressed him.

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Battlefields

He left his meal unfinished and walked back to the Astor in a drizzle that turned the pavement into a reflecting mirror splashed with bright colors.

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He was weighted by an inescapable feeling that he'd failed.

The next day, only a few reviews of his presentation appeared. The Sun's commentary was typical:

Seldom has an hour and a half contained so much that is grim and unhappy, if not utterly repellent. Scenes of the German army at its daily duties, while authentic and picturesque, resemble almost any army anywhere, and add little to our understanding of the European conflict.

The final effect of the presentation is a pervading sense of ugliness. The concluding sequence showing the murder of six Belgians cannot be described in a newspaper which goes into the home.

Cinematographer Crown, unquestionably talented, courageous, and sincere in his purpose, has misjudged his American audience. 'Atrocities of War' may fairly represent the reality of the current struggle, but it is not popular entertainment, and should not be presented as such in a country which is not involved as a belligerent.

At the box office on Saturday, over forty patrons showed up with tickets and insisted on refunds.

Paul started west by a southern route. Between lectures in Baltimore and Richmond he called at the White House with an extra print of the bayonet execution. He asked to see the president, thinking his credentials as a successful author would get him in. A staff man turned him away; the president had no room on his appointment calendar anytime soon.

Charleston, Atlanta, New Orleans, the dusty cities of Texas -- managers of the halls greeted him with little enthusiasm. Every night people walked out. Others groaned or booed. German-American societies sent demonstrators who heckled and tried to debate him as he spoke. In San Antonio someone threw a sack of rotten vegetables from the gallery. It fell short and two orchestra patrons threatened a lawsuit. In Houston someone stole every projector lamp, and the evening was delayed an hour and a half; by then he had twenty people in the audience.

Cities along his northerly return route, including Minneapolis and Des Moines, telegraphed cancellations, which Marguerite forwarded without comment. Paul grew testy and drank more beer than was good for him.

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Troubled Nation

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He decided the problem wasn't so much that his listeners thought the Germans were saintly; it was the way he stubbornly hewed to what Wexford Rooney had taught him years ago in Wex's photography salon in Chicago. Wex said pictures must tell the truth unsparingly. Michael was right, in these divisive times there was such a thing as too much truth. He heard street-corner musicians playing a new hit song of the hour -- 'I Didn't Raise My Boy to Be a Soldier.'

When Paul's train arrived in Los Angeles, he was met by a stout bowlegged Englishman, well up in years but wearing an atrociously youthful chestnut colored wig. Paul knew about Fritzi's friend Hobart Manchester; he had spoken .to his cousin over a rattling long-distance wire from Arizona.

'Fritzi is terribly sorry she couldn't come in person, dear boy,' Hobart said as they walked to the baggage car for the film boxes. 'They're shooting her circus picture on a merciless schedule. Success has its penalties as well as its rewards.'

Paul asked a porter to arrange to send the film boxes directly to Clune's Auditorium. Hobart cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. 'If I may make a suggestion, why not send them to your hotel?' Before Paul could interject a question, he continued, 'I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Paul. Your program has been canceled.'

He felt like he'd taken a body blow. 'I want to talk to the damn theater manager'

'We can certainly go there if you wish,' Hobart said, nodding. 'I have my automobile parked close by.'

Rumpled and fatigued, Paul felt a consuming anger. Under the marquee of Clune's downtown, he took his cap off and scratched his head, noticeably gray now except on top. A bill poster was mixing water in his bucket.

One Night Only!

'ATROCITIES

OF WAR'

Illustrated Lecture by

PAUL CROWN

News Camera-Man & Author 7 Witness History'

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The bill poster's long brush slathered paste over the type in a way that was almost insulting. Up in the manager's office, Paul confronted a nervous secretary, and an inner door tightly closed.

'Mr. Semmel isn't in there, he's out.'

Paul wanted to pick up a chair and smash the door down. He rubbed away ash on his vest and barked at the young woman instead. 'Sure. Give him my regards.'

She handed him a folded yellow sheet. 'This came for you.'

Another wire from Marguerite. It informed him that Chicago and Milwaukee had canceled in the wake of plunging ticket sales and complaints from managers where he'd already appeared. Marguerite ended her message by invoking the clause in the original agreement he'd signed with APA which said that either party could cancel at any time. The bureau no longer represented him. Marguerite would expect a commission on any remaining engagements he fulfilled, but he would fulfill them without her help.

He stormed down the stairs. That's what comes of turning down an eager woman. The cheap and bitter joke didn't lift his spirits one iota.

Fritzi rushed home from Liberty after working all day on Big Top Nell ('Until now I've never played a scene with a hundred-and-ten-pound

chimpanzee in a clown suit, and I don't intend to repeat the experience, thank you very much').

'What will you do after the tour?' she asked at supper in her little Mediterranean house, which Paul found charming. He, Fritzi, and Hobart sat on a small terrace, cool now that the sun was hiding behind the hills.

Hobart refilled their wine glasses with an excellent Sonoma County red. It was half past eight, a fine summer evening.

After reflecting a moment, he said, 'Why, I'll go home to Julie and the kids, then go back to the war zone, shoot more film, and try to find someone to buy it. That's all I know how to do.'

'I'm sorry you've had hostile crowds,' Fritzi said.

'They just don't understand. I'm hanged if I know why.'

Hobart puffed his cigarette and watched a flight of birds in the amber sky. 'The war still isn't real to most Americans. The furor over Lusitania seems to be dying down. The war is enriching America. Your countrymen
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want to profit from it, without any painful involvement.'

After dark, in the small, cozy living room warmed by exposed wooden beams and bright Navaho rugs, Paul set up Fritzi's projector and ran his 7

Kelly Gives Orders 459

film. When the six Belgian men and women died in the field, Fritzi wept; Hobart cursed.

Paul switched off the machine, switched on the electric lights. Fritzi wiped her reddened eyes, sniffed, and tucked the hanky in her pocket.

'There's one person who must see the pictures, Pauli. Papa.'

'Chicago's canceled. I'm not stopping there.'

'Please reconsider. For me.'

'You want me to set up a projector and force him to look at pictures that damn his beloved fatherland? You've already told me how he feels about the war.'

'Yes, but you might change his mind. You can tell him you were reluctant but I insisted. I'll take all the blame. He can't despise me more than he does already.'

Paul didn't reply. He sat low in a deep leather chair with his feet stuck out and his untied shoelaces dangling. The second button of his vest was fastened in the first buttonhole. His tie was loosened, his hair messy. He was very reluctant to compound the General's anger at Fritzi. Hobart sat sleepy-eyed, watching the interplay between the cousins.

'Are you just asking me because I took the pictures and I'm handy?'

'Oh, no, far from it. Papa doesn't respect me any longer, but he respects you. And you're family' She folded her hands in her lap. 'So it's your duty.

Papa's gone down the wrong road, Mama says so in every letter. You have to do it, Pauli -- unless you no longer have a conscience or any kind of moral compass, which I know isn't true.'

He winced at Hobart. 'How do you like that? She lays a skillful trap, doesn't she?'

'There are expert instructors within our profession,' Hobart murmured.

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'Pauli, don't joke. This is a serious matter,' Fritzi said.

.'God, I know. Give me some more of that wine while I think about it. I could wind up with the General despising both of us forever'

I

¦

83 Kelly Gives Orders

Fritzi took her head out of Roger's mouth. It was a monumental relief; Roger had terrible breath, possibly from all the steaks, chops, and ribs fed to him so he wouldn't be tempted to snack on the actors. Unlike 460

Battlefields

Buster, the one hundred-ten-pound chimpanzee, however, Roger was not inclined to tear her clothes off to satisfy his curiosity about the human form.

Roger was, in fact, a magnificent, if rather elderly, king of beasts. He weighed six hundred pounds and stood four feet high; his head was on a level with Fritzi's bosom. Roger badly needed to diet, though. His belly sagged.

Roger liked eye contact. He blinked his tawny eyes at Fritzi, nuzzled her chest, then opened his enormous jaws to yawn. Following this he lay down to snooze.

Eddie ran into the cage built on the original outdoor stage. Half the bars were rubber. Fritzi dropped her lion tamer's whip and wiped her perspiring face and neck with the hem of her striped tunic. 'Lord, this getup's hot.' She wore the tunic with pantaloons, oversized shoes, a fright wig, and clown makeup: huge lips, a red ball on the tip of her nose, a single teardrop outlined in black under her left eye.

'I know,' Eddie sympathized. 'The take looked swell, though. Could I have one more for insurance?'

'Oh, Eddie.' Being professional, that was the extent of her complaint.

'Will Roger cooperate?'

'His owner says the dope won't wear off for another hour.'

'Let's pray he's right.'

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Roger flicked his tawny tail and made an unfriendly noise somewhere in his chest. Fritzi followed Eddie out of the cage and off the set. Behind the camera positioned to shoot through the bars, Jock chatted with Roger's owner. Farther back, Al Kelly was observing with his usual dyspeptic frown.

She plopped in a chair in the shade of a beach umbrella, and a makeup girl handed her a glass of lemonade. 'Thanks, Mona.' Stripped to his undershirt, Jock Ferguson said to Roger's owner, 'How do you get him to open wide like that?'

'Lions are smart. They train well. Roger knows that when we're finished he'll go home to mama. African lions don't step around. They take one mate for life. If I told you any more, you'd be making thirty-five simoleons a day instead of me.' Jock laughed.

In the cage Roger lurched to his feet. He made a lovelorn gargling sound and began to pace. A grip hastily padlocked a chain on the cage door - not much help if Roger discovered the rubber bars. Roger's owner reached through the bars and ruffled his mane. He spoke quietly to the Kelly Gives Orders 461

lion. Roger tossed his head once, bared his few remaining teeth, flopped, and rolled over. Fritzi thought he looked cross, though. Performing for hours in the hot sun was no fun for any actor, two- or four-legged.

A man's shadow fell in front of her. Al felly stepped under the umbrella.

'Like to see you in my office, Fritzi.'

Eddie overheard. 'Boss, we need to get this shot before Roger gets testy.'

'Last take looked fine to me. Don't waste money' j:' Kelly tilted his head to indicate that Fritzi should follow. It was hard to

walk because her shoes measured twenty-five inches from heel to toe. In Eddie's improbable script, Knockabout Nell took over for the star circus clown, who'd eloped with an aerialist. She tamed a lion mistreated by a roustabout, foiled a firebug, prevented bank foreclosure on the circus, and, despite characteristic mishaps with buckets, hoses, trampolines, and tent ropes, once again saved everything and everybody while getting nothing for herself. Nell's secret love was the circus strongman. He preferred _

the cashier, who happened to be the owner's daughter. Nell was left at the I

fade-out sitting with her arm around Roger.

In his office Kelly wasted no time. 'Fritzi, we pay you to perform at the I

studio. I hear you did an act downtown while I was up at Yosemite.'

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'I marched in the preparedness parade, if that's what you mean.' \ 'Made a big speech. It went all over the country on the press wires in