Once Is Not Enough (32 page)

He nodded. “The moment I met you, I felt that we would. . . .”

They had met in a bomb shelter. She had been terrified. She had just arrived that day, and was met by a smiling Uncle Otto who welcomed her to his home. She had a nice room. Tante Bosha was warm and jolly and for the entire morning they had sat and talked about Poland, about the hazards of her escape. She tried not to dwell on it, even though they were anxious for details. She omitted the gory parts—the rape, the Russian soldiers, her own pregnancy. She just spoke glowingly of the A.K. Uncle Otto had heard nothing from Sister Thérèse or her family, and without actually saying it, Karla insinuated that Sister Thérèse and the other nuns, along with the orphans, were safe.

At dusk she had gone for a walk. Uncle Otto had warned her not to go far. At any time the air raids might begin. London was in the midst of Germany’s blitz, and the British people were growing accustomed to spending many a night in an air raid shelter. The Nazis had given up daylight raids the past October when the RAF in an enormous counterattack took too big a toll on their Luftwaffe invaders. But they still continued their night attacks on London, which spread panic and destruction but had little military value.

She had walked about ten blocks when she heard the first siren. She stood rooted to the spot as people came pouring
from their homes heading for the nearest Underground. She started back toward the house but stopped when she realized she’d never make it in time, and that Uncle Otto and Tante Bosha were probably in a shelter themselves. So she turned and followed the stream of people. She found a spot and sat with her hands over her ears as she heard the sounds of destruction overhead.

“Child, you act as if this is your first air raid.”

She looked up at the smiling man. She found herself smiling back. “It is in a way.”

“Where are you from?”

“Wilno . . . Poland. Is my English that bad?”

“Dreadful. But then, I don’t even speak a word of Polish so you’re way ahead of me. What’s your name? I’m Jeremy Haskins.”

He forced her to talk as the bombs fell and she told him about Uncle Otto and Tante Bosha . . . and how she intended to try out for the Sadlers Wells Ballet. Of course that would not be for some time . . . it was so long since she had practiced . . . she would have to get a job in a factory or something first . . . and work out each day to get into shape.

“I can’t really see you in the darkness,” he said. “Are you beautiful?”

“I am a fine dancer,” she said.

When the All Clear sounded they came outside. He walked her home and told her about himself. He was a publicist for J. Arthur Rank films. His wife was an invalid and his daughter had been killed in a bombing raid. They reached the block Uncle Otto’s house was on and for a moment she thought they had come to the wrong place. A street that had held a row of houses an hour ago was now just a smoldering ruin. Fire trucks were still hosing down some charcoaled skeletons of buildings. There were moans of people who were being taken to ambulances . . . cries of young babies . . . and the muted sobs of the women as they plowed among the ruins of their homes, searching for things dear to them.

Suddenly she saw Uncle Otto, holding Tante Bosha’s hand. She dashed after them. Tears were streaming down his face. “Our money . . . so much of it . . . we had in there. All
burned . . . gone. Bosha’s pearls . . . everything is gone.” He looked at Jeremy in a daze. “Such beautiful things we had from the old country . . . things I was hoping to sell to give my relatives in Poland a chance when all this is over. Tapestry . . . fine laces . . . paintings . . . all gone. A Goya . . . gone! No money can replace that.” He looked toward the sky. “Why? This is no military target . . . this is plain vandalism . . . destruction without reason.” Suddenly he seemed to remember Karla. “Your clothes . . . they are all gone. I will get some money from the bank tomorrow . . . tonight we are to stay with a neighbor in the next block . . . they have no extra room for you, but perhaps if I ask around someone will put you up.”

“She can come stay with us . . . in our daughter’s room,” Jeremy Haskins said quickly.

Uncle Otto frowned. He looked at Jeremy Haskins as if suddenly seeing him for the first time. Then he stared toward the charred ruins of his house, and heaved a lumbering sigh, a sigh that signified he felt too old, too tired, and too despondent to take on the added responsibility of the morals of a strange Polish girl. He nodded with a vague relief, and Karla found herself meekly following Jeremy Haskins to the Underground. They got into a crowded train and rode in silence. After a time she felt he was staring at her. Her face flushed and she looked down at her plain hands.

He reached over and patted them. “They could do with a little manicuring. But you know, you are really quite beautiful.”

She kept staring at her hands. This nice man who had comforted her during the air raid, who had convinced Uncle Otto he was sincere—who was he really, and where were they going? There probably never had been a daughter who died . . . or a sick wife. He was probably taking her off to some dreadful little room and . . . she stared down at her mud-spattered shoes. Did it really matter? Where did she have to go? And after the Russians . . . what could this poor little Englishman do? Force her to spread her legs . . . what did it matter?

Suddenly he spoke. “Look, my girl, there’s a part in a film that a friend of mine is producing. It’s not a large part, but it
would put you over. It’s a Nazi spy, and I was just thinking—your accent would be perfect. Can you act at all?”

“I don’t know . . . my English is bad.”

“Of course. But it will be perfect for the role. Tomorrow we shall have you meet him. And look, old girl—it may not be Sadlers Wells, but it’s certainly better than the factory.”

He had a nice little house and she met the invalid wife, a lovely tissue-paper-looking lady named Helen, who looked at her husband as he made the tea, her eyes filled with gratitude and death. She was delighted that Karla had come to stay. Her pride was mingled with sadness as she offered her their daughter’s room. Karla had never had such a nice room, and as she fell asleep, she felt safe . . . and knew that once again she had found someone who would think for her.

She had gotten the part . . . and suddenly the acceleration of the pace of her life was like a movie running in double time. Makeup tests, costume fittings, nights of working on her heavy accent . . . and the final discussion . . . the argument over her name. She insisted on being called Karla . . . just one name. Karla. Arnold Malcolm, the producer, finally agreed. He also sensed the stubborn Polish girl had something that would register on the screen. And as Arnold Malcolm predicted, it happened. The newspapers all singled out the new foreign discovery. She caused a small sensation when the picture came out, and the only thing that made her sad was Helen’s death, which occurred a week before the picture was finished. Once again Karla realized the danger of growing attached to someone. She had cared about the delicate woman who bore her suffering so silently, who had helped her with her English, and encouraged her each day. They buried her silently and without tears. And that same day she took the Underground back to work at the studio. Karla sat stoically, and when she got off she said, “I hate movie making. I hate the English language which I will never be able to learn. I hate the waiting, the lights-but most of all, I hate this train.”

And Jeremy had managed a tight smile and said, “One day you will understand English with ease and you shall ride in a limousine.”

Jeremy had sold the house and taken a flat for himself and Karla in Kensington. He gave up his job with J. Arthur Rank and became her manager. The newspapers all hinted that he was her lover, but actually they had only gone to bed once. She had done it out of gratitude and he had realized it. “I was silly to hope . . . I am too old for you.” He sighed.

“No,” she said, looking at him directly. “It is not your fault. You see, I am a lesbian.”

Her tone was so matter-of-fact that he found himself accepting it as just another fragment of information about her life. And then, as they lay in the darkness, holding hands like two good friends, she told him everything about herself. About the men who had raped her . . . about Gregory . . . about the baby, who was living with a Swedish couple. She sent money to them every month now. And when he asked why the baby was never to know she was its mother, she had answered, “What you never have, you cannot lose. It was still such a little baby when I left—it didn’t know me, I didn’t know it. Neither of us will feel pain or disappointment in one another this way. Why should my child wonder which bastard was the father—or feel neglected because I am not there?”

When he tried to probe her about Gregory—or force her to admit she really cared for him—she shrugged. “Perhaps I did. I will never know. I was so filled with hate for what the Russians had done to Sister Thérèse, to the others . . . I never let myself feel.” And then she went on to tell of a short but tender love affair she had had with a woman resistance worker in the A.K. A woman who had been beautiful, considerate and kind, who had helped her with her escape, helped her get the baby to Sweden. No, it was the tenderness of a woman that she loved. She could never really love a man.

So they became good friends. Together they worked on her English, on the parts she played. In her fourth picture she received star billing. Each day she’d sit with Jeremy in the darkened studio and stare at the daily rushes on the screen. She couldn’t believe that she was that exciting woman on the screen.

It was Jeremy who decided against interviews. “We shall not allow any. Your English is not good enough, you might
not understand some of their questions, you would be misquoted, and—”

“And I am stupid and dull.”

“No, that isn’t true. You are still very young. On the screen you come across worldly . . . as a woman of mystery. But to know you . . . is to know a child.”

“No, Jeremy. I am stupid. I know it. You do not have to pretend. I hear other actresses talking. They speak of Shakespeare . . . they can quote him. They talk about books written by Maugham, Colette, even American writers like Hemingway. Some of them ask me about Polish writers. I know none of them . . . but
they
do. They speak of art . . . I know nothing.”

“You may lack education,” he said. “But you are not stupid. To realize there are things you don’t know only proves you are most intelligent. If you like, I can help you learn about these things.”

“Will they help me make more money?”

“No . . . but they—”

“Forget it,” she said.

Karla was terrified about going to California, but Jeremy had signed the contract with Century. And then, on the day she was supposed to leave for Hollywood, the Swedish couple had cabled that they didn’t want to take care of the child any longer. Jeremy sent her to California alone, in spite of her protests, while he remained and arranged to have the child brought to London. He hated to trust her away from him for the six weeks it took to get things settled with the child and bring it to London. When he got to California, he found his premonitions had not been groundless. She was living in a huge partially furnished mansion the studio had found for her and was enmeshed in an ecstatic love affair with Heidi Lanz.

“Karla, you cannot afford this kind of gossip. It could ruin you. Heidi is a big star with a husband and three children. The public would never believe it of her.”

“Tell me about my child.”

“Everything is fine. I have found a perfectly marvelous couple—John and Mary. They think the child is a distant relative
of mine and your interest is due to our relationship. The child is a little slow—the doctors say it has something to do with not getting enough oxygen at birth—but I think it was the Swedish couple. They scarcely ever spoke. John and Mary are marvelous. Everything will be fine. Naturally they think we are lovers.”

“Wait until you meet Heidi . . .”

“Karla, you must be more discreet.”

“I will be a star after this picture in America. An international star. Already they compare me with Garbo and Dietrich . . . they say I am bringing back the lost glamor. Here, look at my pictures—on
Photoplay, Modern Screen, Movie Mirror
. . . all of them. Wonderful stories about the great Karla. So do not worry—my publicity has been excellent. I have obeyed you to the letter. No interviews, closed set, lunch alone in my dressing room. No one can see me except Heidi.”

He sighed. “Karla, already in London there have been pictures of the two of you in pants, ducking cameramen.”

Karla shrugged. “Out here everyone wears pants . . . and many people duck cameramen.”

“Are you saving money—remember—for your child? You want the best schools . . . everything you missed—”

“Am I saving?” She threw her back her head and the throaty laugh filled the room. “I have been here almost seven weeks and have only cashed one paycheck. Heidi pays for everything!”

The romance between Karla and the German star didn’t last long. But Jeremy was amazed at how the top lesbians of the film colony came after her. He wondered if there was some sort of radar that passed among them—like a neon sign lighting on their forehead that only they could see. But Karla refused to mingle with them.

Byron Masters was cast opposite her in her third picture. He was dashing, handsome, did his own stunts, had been married three times, and was bisexual. And to Karla his resemblance to Gregory was startling. She suddenly grew coy. And when she learned he was currently living with another male star, the challenge appealed to her. Suddenly she wanted a young man’s strong body in her arms.

They began filming, and after the first week, Byron moved out on his roommate . . . fell insanely in love with her . . . to the extent that he allowed her to dominate the entire picture. She emerged a full-fledged star, and stories of their romance flooded every movie magazine.

For a few months she reveled in her love affair with Byron. She had him come to dinner at her sparsely furnished home. They cooked steaks and ate in the kitchen. Jeremy had discreetly moved to a furnished apartment and grown interested in a divorced real estate lady.