Lillian and Dash (23 page)

W
HEN WE SPEND THIS MUCH TIME TOGETHER
, we even begin to sound alike. Thank God for personal pronouns.

He
can date things better than I. In this case—I guess I’m talking about our blowup—the nearest I can come is the blitzkrieg of Rotterdam, which would make it, what, early spring 1940? The bombing, similar to Guernica but on a much, much larger scale and far better organized, happened two or three days earlier. Hundreds of bombers, three hundred, according to the papers.

When we were in California the depressing impact of the war news did not hit me as it did back here in New York. Out there, it was as though we were in one surreal world reading about what was happening in another surreal world, like Martians trying to be concerned about what was happening out on Venus. I can’t say Rotterdam broke my heart. Spain had already done that.

The
Journal American
showed Rotterdam leveled to dust and rubble, faint grids where streets and avenues had once intersected. Only one building, the great cathedral, was left standing, untouched as though the surrounding punishment was God’s will, when it was Hitler’s. No people, not a one, to be seen, even with a magnifying glass, which is what I was using when Hammett came into the kitchen. The Hearst caption read, “Rotterdam, Holland, in the aftermath of aerial military action,” as though there were neither murderers nor their victims, only “action.” The bastard.

Hammett picked up the morning’s
Times
and read the latest reports. “Looks like they’ll be going after London next. They’re collecting air bases across the Channel. Can’t believe how fast they’re moving.”

“I hope I don’t hear the hint of some bullshit, he-man admiration in your voice.”

“You may hear it, but it is not there. I’m only saying this will be a war of wills, and until our will matches theirs, they’ll just roll on.”

The mood of the day was set by that early exchange over coffee. I resented his acknowledging any superiority whatsoever to the scum … and for much of the day could not completely shake my resentment.

Hammett had agreed to walk to the lawyer’s office with me that day and cosign a contract to purchase a farm upstate. In Westchester. Pleasantville. The world was living in
Shitsville and there we would be, tucked away safe in Pleasantville. Still, I have to say I was not guilt-ridden. Living in the country was the answer for us. You know, give old Voltaire a try, “Cultivate your garden” and all that. One hundred and forty acres on which to make things grow, nourish your soul, get food to market, grow strong, try to look away from the rest of the world for a while. Dash was always a country boy at heart and other than a few radio plays those days, he certainly wasn’t growing anything in the city.

For us, the simplest exchanges in those days always had angry undertones. Blame it on the Nazis. Blame it on the weaklings who gave them the run of the house. Since blame always seeks the nearest target, blame Hammett and then blame me. He was edgy too, but I didn’t think it mattered very much. Everything about buying the farm had been discussed fully, all had been agreed to. I thought.

We would become co-owners of Hardscrabble Farm, and all would become right in our small universe. He got to name the place after many long and enjoyable discussions over the dinners we prepared together. I’d say, “What about Tightwad Acres?”

“Good but not true. There’s nothing cheap about either one of us. How ’bout Rewrite Farm?”

“Self-aggrandizing. What about Cornucopia?”

“You’re kidding.”

Hardscrabble came late in the game. Hammett offered it after doing a crossword in which the clue was “Scratch
or paw the earth,” eight letters. S-c-r-a-b-b-l-e. Hardscrabble was what the sharecroppers back in Hopewell called their infertile land.

I said, “That’s as far from Cornucopia as you can get. But Hardscrabble it is.”

I knew the property needed lots of work. The farmhouse needed everything—rewiring, a new well, a roof, a screened-in porch, new kitchen, complete paint job … The farm itself needed a tractor, maybe two. An irrigation system. The barn walls needed shoring up. Much of the stock had to be replaced … Listen to me, I’m speaking like Farmer Lill.

Money was at no time an issue, at least where I was concerned.
The Little Foxes
was going to Warners even before it closed on Broadway.
Watch on the Rhine
was on its way to town with at least three studios already bidding significant money for film rights. I knew the play would cause a stir. No one else was writing about the raw political brutality cloaked by the elegance, good breeding, and superficiality of European aristocrats and the wealthy American upper classes. In the play, a German-born engineer and his wife and three children visit his wife’s very rich and apolitical mother in Washington. Kurt, the engineer, is prominent in the antifascist underground in Germany. Another aristocratic house-guest discovers this and is about to expose him and some of his colleagues when Kurt kills him. And there is the great moral dilemma of the play. When exactly do we take up arms against the Rats? Is killing ever justified? These are questions
easily answered for me. I thought it was about time audiences had to face them too.

As far as Hardscrabble was concerned, it didn’t matter a tittle to me that Hammett was cash poor at the time. Perhaps it should have, but it didn’t. He could pay his way when things got better for him. Or not. I didn’t care. It wasn’t important.

As I said, mid-May, a glorious morning in New York. It was my idea to walk rather than ride to Sherman’s office to sign the Hardscrabble papers. The walk over to Broadway, across the park, and then to Madison would set the day apart, make it feel special. It was something I thought we needed to set against the backdrop of the despicable bombing in Holland, an entr’acte, contentment stolen in a crappy world.

I knew he didn’t like the financial arrangement for Hardscrabble. But was there any doubt that if the situation were reversed, he’d do everything possible for me to share the farm with him? When I said that, it turned a tense situation into an angry tense situation. He said I’d get my money soon and with interest. Instead of saying,
Fine
, and being done with it, or better, saying nothing at all, I made a joke: “First of the month, small bills, brown envelope, my agent’s office.” When our eyes met, I could see he didn’t love me. If anyone knew that money was never about money, it was me. And unless Dash had another good novel in him or got some film work, radio plays were simply not going to cut it. As it was, half the money he did make went to his family—yes, he was still married, thank you very much—no telling precisely where
the other half went. We walked on in the civil chill of a very fine day like a typical married couple.

Did I mention that he had dressed for the occasion? A haircut—not a drinker’s apology, a stylish trim—and his best gray suit and tie. Just the week previous he had wandered over to Broadway and bought a Homburg. He saw Ribbentrop in the
Times
shaking hands with Molotov and said, “Dignity, thy name is Homburg.” I said, “Rats in fancy hats is still Rats.” But he bought the hat and looked handsome and prosperous and particularly well turned out as we crossed Columbus Avenue, where I slipped my wrist over his arm. I had to help get him through this difficult day.

When we entered the park at Eighty-sixth, I told him about a talk I’d had with Jack Warner about the rights for
Watch
. I didn’t bother to tell him I’d talked with Goldwyn and Mayer as well. No deal had actually been cut with anyone yet, one certainly would be, but nothing was firm. I needed to know about scheduling and casting and, naturally, about the money. It was going to have to be substantial now that Hardscrabble was about to become a reality. Even though I owed L.B. a favor for Myra, the movie was too important to throw away with Mayer. Here was my chance to show the American public who the Rats were, why they were Rats, and how Rats invariably behaved.
Watch on the Rhine
did that. Hammett had been, as always, helpful with each draft. No, that’s patronizing; more than helpful, inspiring. He knew the damned story inside out and backward.

I told Hammett I wanted to collaborate on the screenplay with him, to get it released soon enough for it to have the greatest political impact. We still weren’t in the war. No reason why he couldn’t get started on the writing himself until I got free of the my stage obligations. I intended the news to encourage. I didn’t realize …

At any rate, he said, “And now I’m supposed to thank you for the payday. That’s not what we are, Lill.” I said nothing while we walked on.

I always pushed to get my Broadway people in the films of my plays. This one was different. Stars would give the political message a hell of a lot more bite. When Jack Warner mentioned Bette Davis and Charles Boyer, I knew we could do something important with the film. Of course I knew you never ended up with all the teaser names. Davis would be enough for me.

Warner was very reluctant to agree to Hammett writing the screenplay. “He’s not drinking, Jack.”

“He’s not writing much either.” Then he said he needed assurances for what he called “my people.” Jack Warner had no “people.” What kind of assurances? The best kind, he said. Warner wanted my word that if the Hammett screenplay was unsatisfactory for any reason, I would submit a final version at no additional cost. It was an insult Hammett would never have to hear. I knew Dash could produce a marvel. He wasn’t drinking very much at all. No more than I was. I agreed, provided Davis played the lead. Warner said we had the outline of a deal.

“You are
not
supposed to thank me for a payday. What you
are
supposed to do is get to work on the script tomorrow morning and give my dingy, one-room political talkfest some fucking life … let the outside world shine its light on—”

“What are they paying for hackwork at Warners these days for someone who can’t get any work on his own?”

“Dash, don’t ruin the day.”

W
E
’
D ALWAYS FOUGHT
, always, always broken up—well, separated at least—and then come back together after a while, a cooling off, or sometimes a heating up. Not always out of need, either. Ultimately it was a seeking that brought us back. Where’d I leave that arm of mine anyway? Or as in my case, where the hell was my heart, where’d I leave my courage? I had them just a little while ago. So it is fair to say Lillian Hellman completed me. The only problem was that sometimes a man like me doesn’t want to be completed. Women in love don’t ever really get that. Even amazing Lillian, brilliant Lillian, didn’t get it. The Hammett she admired was not a Hammett who ever was. It was the Hammett who someday might be … the maybe, maybe Hammett. That’s no way for a man to live.

Let me take the day from breakfast on. Very nice morning as I recall. Unusually nice, except that all the war news
was particularly terrible. I mentioned at table that sometimes military conditions can deteriorate to the point where things were irreversible. Lillian said, “Are we there yet?” She was at the stove making French toast.

“Just about.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Us or the country?”

“The country. We’re fine.” Said with emphasis. “We’re off to Pleasantville. Hah, Pleasantville. Bucolic life of dumb contentment.”

We let ourselves be appropriately ashamed of our personal good fortune. I said, “Our side isn’t going to do anything smart or brave for a while. Let’s hope Herr Hitler does something monumentally stupid.”

“And will he?”

That’s when I saw a small note on the theater page about
Watch on the Rhine
coming to Broadway. No one outworks Shumlin’s flacks. The piece said the play was going through changes to keep it as fresh as the latest news from Europe. This line struck me: “Miss Hellman—a modern-day Kassandra—has warned us all repeatedly for years of a dire future unless we act to defend our democratic way of life. Alas, Kassandra’s legendary warnings went unheeded, but she was not so brilliant a playwright.”

I read her the blurb. “I’m breakfasting with an effing goddess.”

Her tone turned shitty, a reminder of the fight we had the night before about Roosevelt. What is it about that man that prompts such passionate defenses? When I called him a cagey bastard who played everyone against everyone, she bit my goddamned head off. Didn’t I realize the Republicans had him cornered on the war? Of course, he’d act decisively as soon as he could. What the hell was wrong with me? She didn’t just support or admire him, she loved the cunning devil. They all did. She abruptly clicked off the light and rolled over. End of political discussion. End of everything.

Lilly knew the myth, obviously. What she wanted to talk about was what I thought it meant … and then what the meaning meant. Myths are like that, Russian dolls. It pleased me to be her brains in this way. But when the ideas came back after passing through the Hellman filter, they were a fine new vintage in beautiful bottles. I also loved displaying what I knew when she was the student.