Melting the Snow on Hester Street Read online

  ‘… When you sign with one of the big studios, anything is possible,’ she was telling him. ‘They can fix up anything for you. They have people to do it, you see. People employed to cover up the most terrible activities. And they can do it. You know? They have all the corners covered. You remember William Taylor?

  William Desmond Taylor – a Hollywood director, living under an assumed name, found dead in his home with a room full of ladies’ underwear, signed by their famous lady owners, and love letters in his desk from two of America’s biggest movie stars … They never found the killer. The studio had its people crawling over the death scene long before the police got near the place. It was a scandal back in 1922 when it happened. It was a scandal still.

  ‘Who doesn’t know about William Desmond Taylor?’ replied Mr Gregory. He glanced subtly at his watch.

  ‘Well, then. You understand. The studio looks after you. But that kind of protection, it comes at a price.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Butch was a studio man by then, you see. He always knew better than anyone how to work a system.’ She smiled. ‘For example – right now, he’s a senior producer at Lionsfiel—’

  ‘Uh-huh …’

  ‘He’s a big shot, no question about that. But he’s not the only big shot. There are others, more senior. But he has a better office than any of them. Bigger, swankier.’ She laughed suddenly, thinking of his hidden Speak, of which he was so very proud. ‘Butch knows how to look after himself. And he looks after the people he cares for. And he looked out for us, Mr Gregory. You understand? He fixed us up with the initial studio contracts. And he got us new papers. We had papers at last!’

  ‘He got you papers. Fair enough. But if the studios can fix anything – if they can fix you up with a new identity, get their stars off the hook for murder – then why, and you have to excuse me for asking this, but why are you sitting here with a small-town detective from Reno?’

  ‘Because they don’t know. Of course. About Isha. About the half of it. They would never have signed us …’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Matz’s politics …’

  ‘What about his politics?’

  She shifted in her seat. The time had come. She knew it. Last night, after the call with Butch had ended so abruptly, she had considered the matter carefully: what she would and wouldn’t tell Matthew Gregory today. She would tell him the truth, she had decided. Because she had to tell him something. But not all of it. Half the truth would be enough.

  ‘He was part of the socialist movement—’

  Gregory sat up as if an electric current has passed through him. ‘Socialism?’ he said. Snarled.

  She smiled. ‘Oh, you can frown if you like, Mr Gregory,’ she said. ‘Just as much as you like. But when you’ve lived and worked as we did …’

  He held up a hand. ‘Hey, lady. For God’s sakes. We all have different opinions. We’re entitled to our different opinions. That’s the beauty of America! I’m sure as hell not here to judge.’

  ‘But you were judging,’ she replied. ‘We can’t help but judge. And yet, until we have inhabited one another’s skins …’

  ‘Carry on with your story,’ he said impatiently.

  With an upward tilt of her head, she continued. ‘You may remember, as we went into the War, there was quite a virulent feeling of – a sort of patriotism bordering on mania.’

  ‘We call it plain old “American” here in Reno.’

  ‘Matz held a lot of beliefs which ran counter to the …’ She paused. ‘Counter to the American way of thinking at that time. We were going to war. Matz was someone who didn’t believe in it—’

  ‘HA!’ The sound – an exclamation of outrage – escaped from him before he could stop it. Nor – he realized, even at $14 per hour – did he wish it back. ‘You’re telling me, Mrs Beecham, that your husband refused to fight?’

  ‘Well, he couldn’t have fought. Clearly. I told you he was in hiding, Mr Gregory. His name had been on a list of undesirables, and no doubt if he had come forward they would have thrown him directly in jail … In any case,’ she added unnecessarily, ‘he would never have come forward. He would never have fought. He fought for the workers – as bravely as any man fought for any cause. But he was against the War. Against America having anything to do with it. He didn’t understand why we in America should fight a war in Europe. After all, we had come here, or our parents had come here … to the goldene medina,’ she smiled a little wryly. ‘Our parents had escaped from a Europe which had made us less than welcome. Don’t you see? And we had no fond memories of it. No love for it. Why would we? Matz didn’t believe we should return there to die in a War which had nothing to do with us …’

  The words bounced off him. He had lost his hearing in one ear, fighting a war that meant nothing to him. He woke each morning with a dull ache in his left shin, left over from fighting a war that meant nothing to him. He had fought. And God knew why. Because he was an American. And a man. And proud of it … What allowed Matz Kappelman to think he could avoid playing his part? Always the Kikes, thought Gregory, bitterly. Always out for themselves.

  ‘He was a Bolshevik?’

  Eleanor tried not to smile. ‘He was Socialist. Mr Gregory. Yes, he was.’

  Gregory laid down his pen.

  Tick-tacker-tick-tacker tick tick tick …

  He thought of his wife, with another child on the way. He thought of $14 an hour – and the market in freefall, and no other clients on the horizon. He wanted to stand on a principal: some sort of American principal, as visceral to him as it was fuzzy, which stopped him lending help and support to Socialists and shirkers. He told himself he would ask her to leave, this Kike who didn’t believe in America. And even if no more clients ever came forward, and every penny of his savings was wiped out, at least then he could hold his head high. They would move to a smaller house. He would return to the police force. It would be OK. They would survive.

  Fourteen dollars an hour. And more fabulously rich clients where she came from. Kikes and Socialists … movie stars and millionaires. Who the hell cared? Who was counting? This was capitalism … It was the American way …

  Eleanor watched it all. ‘You don’t need to sympathize, Mr Gregory,’ she said coolly. ‘I am explaining why we needed new identities. Why we couldn’t allow the studio to discover our past. Haven’t you wondered? Why our hunt had been so hampered …? And, you know, it was Butch who got them for us … Our new papers.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course. Please, carry on. Only please, I need you to clarify something for me.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am confused.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Matz Kappelman, the father of your missing child, whom you always led me to believe had been killed in the fire …’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Is not, in fact, dead after all? Is that correct? My father could find no record of a Matz Kappelman, alive or dead. And nor could I …’

  ‘Well, but I never said Isha’s father was dead,’ she said quickly, confused by her own lies now, wanting only to press ahead. ‘Matz Kappelman is dead. Absolutely. He has been dead for a long time.’

  ‘Ah … then—’

  ‘Max Beecham, on the other hand, is alive and well. Or – at any rate – he was alive and well when I left the house on Friday morning.’

  39

  ‘I think there was a lull. After Poppy Girl! was released, and we three – Max, Butch and I – were quite the toast of town. And I tried so hard to forget, and so did Max. We never mentioned our old life. I dreamed of Isha every night – and I suppose Max did too. But there was nothing to be gained. We never talked about her. It was too painful.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Well, Poppy Girl! was released in 1918 … And then in 1921 … It was in October 1921 that I received the letter.’

  He looked down at his file. ‘A letter?’

  ‘You don’t have i
t.’

  ‘You never mentioned a letter.’

  ‘No. That’s because …’

  The letter had been delivered to her private bungalow at Lionsfiel. It was in the days before she asked for her post to be sifted: the early days, only three years since Poppy Girl! had made her into a star, and the fan letters still gave her a thrill. The letter arrived with the usual sack of them, but it arrived on Isha’s birthday, 17 October 1921. Isha would have been fourteen years old.

  Eleanor was waiting to go on set. There was a make-up girl in attendance, and the costume girl gossiping about somebody in the cast perhaps being in the family way. Max was in the corner of the room, as he often used to be back then: her dressing room was like a second office to him. He was discussing something with the set designer. Eleanor opened the card.

  It was a picture of a ship. Nondescript. A drab little photograph. Eleanor turned it over. There was a single line, a handwritten note, not addressed to anyone. Just a simple statement.

  I am looking for my mother.

  That was it.

  She dropped it, as if it had burned her fingers. ‘Max?’

  Deep in conversation with the set designer, he didn’t hear her. They had been together long enough that it was often the case. On set, when he was directing her in a scene, nothing escaped him: she had the full beam of his attention. Off set, sometimes she had to stand on a chair, sing, dance, shout, just to get his attention.

  Her voice, so reliable normally, seemed to disappear. She opened her mouth to call him, but only a whisper came out. She whispered, ‘Max!’

  And he stopped. Turned towards her. Saw the expression on her face, the light in her eyes … And it crossed his mind, of course it did. It was the first thing he thought of. He said:

  ‘Ladies. Gentleman. Everyone … Excuse us a moment, would you please? El and I need a minute alone.’

  He crossed the room as the others shuffled out of the bungalow. She showed him the card.

  ‘You know what the date is?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course I know what the date is.’

  They gazed at the card a long moment, lost in the same thoughts, the same rush of fear and hope; enveloped together in the same memories.

  Eventually Max gave a lopsided smile. ‘Shucks,’ he said. ‘She isn’t looking for her papa, too?’

  Eleanor laughed. They both laughed.

  ‘There’s an address – you see it? It’s Brooklyn. She must have gone over to Brooklyn. It’s much better in Brooklyn. I’m so happy she made it out of Manhattan. With her lungs and—’

  ‘Baby,’ he said, reaching out, and when she didn’t answer, because she knew what he was about to say, he pulled her face round to look at him. ‘Baby, you’ve got to know—’

  ‘I know.’ She pushed his hand from her. ‘Of course. I’m not an idiot, Max.’

  ‘There are a lot of cranks out there … It could be from anyone. It could be just a crazy coincidence. And the fact it arrived today, it’s probably just a crazy coincidence.’ But even he didn’t sound convinced. She could hear it in his voice – all the hope they had hidden from one another for so many years.

  ‘What shall we do?’ she asked him again. ‘Shall we go to her? Write to her? Maybe telegram. We should send a telegram, telling her we received the note. Telling her we’re on our way. We can leave this afternoon, Max. Can’t we? Butch’ll kick up a stink. It’s too bad. We’ll go to Brooklyn to fetch her right away. This afternoon.’

  ‘It may not be her.’

  ‘Oh, Max.’

  ‘I’m serious. We can’t just “go to Brooklyn”. Hotfoot it all the way to Brooklyn, to answer a letter from some crazy, star-obsessed crank who doesn’t even sign their name … Hell, Eleanor, this card,’ he shook it at her, almost angrily, ‘you know it could be from anyone!’

  Her eyes dropped to the dressing-table top. Slowly, woefully, she covered her ears.

  ‘Max … Why do you keep saying it?’

  ‘On the other hand,’ he added, and as he spoke the words he could hardly believe he was hearing them, ‘we have an address, El. And it could be her. It could be … couldn’t it, El? It could be that she’s found us …’

  They stayed closeted in her dressing room for an hour or so, ignoring calls from the floor manager to come back onto set. They locked the door, eventually, to stop anyone coming in, and they talked in a way they’d not been able to for many years. They wondered what she might be like, how she might have survived, whether she might perhaps have educated herself, as her father had.

  ‘It’s nice handwriting,’ Eleanor said. ‘That’s good handwriting, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s wonderful handwriting,’ Max said.

  ‘She must have been resourceful, Max. Like you. A born survivor …’

  ‘She had your beautiful green eyes,’ he said. ‘Do you remember her green eyes?’

  Eleanor laughed. ‘Yes, Max. I remember her green eyes! Do you remember her beautiful hair. Thick, curly hair. Like yours. Oh! I could do nothing with it!’

  ‘She’ll be beautiful,’ he said. ‘I bet she’ll be beautiful.’

  ‘Of course she will be beautiful!’

  They took turns to bring each other back to earth.

  There are a lot of cranks out there.

  It could just be the craziest coincidence …

  They’d missed a full hour of filming by the time Butch came down to discover what was the hold-up. He didn’t raise his voice. He stood outside the bungalow: ‘Max? Eleanor? Could you please unlock the door? We need to get you on set right away.’

  When they opened the door, he knew at once they were keeping something from him. Actually, he had always known it. He hated it. They were his closest friends – his only friends. And yet they excluded him. He didn’t ask what had happened. He was too proud. From the look of them, and the light in their faces, he guessed it was something monumental. Something they weren’t going to share with him. He had never seen either look so happy.

  ‘Get out there,’ he snapped. ‘You know how much this delay is costing us? What am I meant to say to Carrascosa?’

  They finished the day’s filming. At the end of it, Max said to Butch: ‘Eleanor and I have to leave for New York. I’m sorry, Butch. We have to leave this evening. We’ll be back on set in ten days.’

  ‘No, Max. It’s impossible.’

  But they did leave. That same night. Lucky for them, their last movie had made more for Lionsfiel than any film that year. Any other star, any other director, any other day, their contracts would have been torn up, their careers would have been finished. But Max and Eleanor came and went. They returned to Hollywood ten days later, just as they had promised, and continued exactly where they left off.

  In the five days it took them to cross the country, they talked about anything and everything but what was on both their minds. And somehow, by the time they reached the address in Brooklyn, though neither said a word, in their hearts they both knew how the story would end.

  The house wasn’t much but it was a significant improvement on the tenement in Allen Street. It stood, indistinguishable from the rest, in a long row of small, unkempt bungalows with front yards and with a hundred children scampering between them. The address on the postcard was for a bungalow at the far end. Eleanor wanted to walk right up to the door but Max pulled her back, and they squabbled about it, there on the street. Max said she should hang back. They would recognize her.

  They stepped up the short garden path together. Knocked on the door.

  And waited an eternity. Finally, there came footsteps – light, girlish footsteps. The door pulled back and a thin man stood before them. He looked to be in his early forties, immaculately dressed, with dark hair greased back from a face so pale it might never have seen the sun. Still clutching the door, the man gazed suspiciously from one to the other. Behind him, the grey morning light fell on a hallway that was bare and unlived in, and quite silent.

  Max said – he cleared his throat. H
e said: ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you. I was looking for a young lady.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ said the immaculate man. But his voice and manner, his beautiful clothes all belied the implication. ‘You won’t find any here. Unfortunately. Who are you?’ He looked at them again, slowly – from one to the other, back and forth. Eleanor’s mink collar was turned up against the New York chill. She wore sunglasses and a cloche hat pulled down over her forehead. Max looked dapper as ever, in pale brown wool – a winter suit, California style. They exuded prosperity and glamour. The American Dream. On a working man’s street on a grey Brooklyn morning, Max and Eleanor Beecham stood out like a couple of aliens.

  ‘We were looking for a young lady,’ Max said again. ‘She left us this address. Her name is …’ and as he said it, he knew just how preposterous it was. How absurd he sounded. Eleanor knew it too. ‘Her name is Isha Beekman?’ The name clearly didn’t register. He tried again. ‘Isha Beekman—’

  ‘Or you might know her as—’ Eleanor burst out

  ‘Yes, you might know her as Isha Kappelman?’ Max said.

  ‘Make up your mind,’ the man said laconically. His eyes continued to move carefully, curiously, from one to the other. He added: ‘I can’t say I know either of those names.’

  Finally his gaze came to rest on Eleanor. He frowned slightly and then, as if a light were dawning, his thin face broke into a smile ‘Well I’ll be …’ and then into a grin so broad his face might have split in half, ‘It’s Eleanor Beecham!’

  Instinctively Max put an arm around his wife’s shoulder. ‘I sent you a letter!’ the man cried. ‘Is that why you have come?’ He glanced back at Max, confusion settling on his face again. ‘Why have you come here? Why have you …’ and then, without warning, he crumpled. His slim shoulders hunched and he began to weep. ‘You came to see me! You came all this way from Hollywood … Because you’re the kindest lady—’

  ‘No!’ she muttered, horrified. ‘No, I didn’t.’