Once Is Not Enough (56 page)

Karla added more wood to the fire. She sat and stared at it morosely. “She is very lovely, isn’t she?”

“She’s fantastic-looking,” Dee said. “I see a lot of you in the bone structure of her face . . . but her eyes are dark. Her father must have been very handsome.”

“I don’t know who he was.”

Dee didn’t answer. She sat motionless . . . afraid to break the mood. Karla spoke hesitantly. “You see, I was raped by almost a dozen Russian soldiers in one night. Any one of them could have fathered her.” Then she sat down and stared into the fire. She spoke slowly . . . never moving her eyes from the flame. Her voice was low and unemotional as she told Dee about her girlhood in Wilno . . . Sister Thérèse . . . the ballet . . . the war . . . the Russian occupation . . . and the violence and rape. She also told how it had been impossible for her to leave Wilno until after the baby was born. She talked about Gregory Sokoyen—how he had stayed with her the night she was in labor . . . how she could not cry out because of the other children sleeping in the convent . . . the nineteen hours of unbearable pain . . . Gregory always there . . . even in the final moment when they had realized something was wrong . . . a breech birth . . . it had been Gregory who fought his own panic and reached up, straightened the baby, and literally pulled it out. She could still see him, standing under the awful little overhead light . . . smacking the bottom of the bloody child . . .until the first pitiful wail emerged.

Karla looked over at Dee. “In pictures, and even in hospitals, one always sees the mother being given a sweet-smelling little bundle in an immaculate blanket. But my cubicle of a bedroom looked liked a slaughterhouse that night. The baby was covered with my blood . . . the long umbilical cord hung down . . . Gregory attended to everything while I went into another violent spasm of pain delivering the afterbirth.”

She shuddered slightly. “I’ll never forget that night . . . getting the baby cleaned first . . . then destroying bloody sheets . . . putting the baby to my breast for the first time. I had never dreamed I would have a golden little girl. Somehow, I guess I had always thought it would come out looking like a little miniature Russian soldier with a bulbous nose and whiskey on its breath. And when I held her in my arms, I knew I could never leave her.”

She talked on in a quiet voice, telling of the hazardous trip with the A.K. Twenty of them, hiding in barns during the day . . . crossing rooftops and underground tunnels at night . . .
carrying the baby strapped against her stomach . . . stifling the baby’s cries with a few drops of vodka when the Russians were close.

“And that is how it all happened. Zinaida was about three months old . . . a beautiful normal baby girl. We were close to the Corridor . . . the Nazis were all around us now . . . and the baby began to cry. We did everything—the vodka didn’t work . . . nothing worked . . . even the chocolate candy which we hoarded like gold. Her cries grew piercing. I put her to my breast . . . but I had so little milk. I couldn’t quiet her. Suddenly one of the men grabbed her from my arms and placed a pillow over her face while another held my mouth so I couldn’t scream. And when the Germans were gone . . . Zinaida was dead. Oh God! I’ll never forget that moment . . . when we are stared at that lifeless little body. I was sobbing silently . . . And the man who had held the pillow had tears running down his face. Suddenly he grabbed her and started breathing into her mouth. We all stood so still. Twenty cold dirty people who had traveled together, slept huddled against one another for warmth, picked lice off one another—lived together for three long weeks with just two thoughts. Survival and escape. And everyone had tears in their eyes as the man worked on Zinaida. Even the small children with their pinched faces—some were perhaps only five or six, but they knew what was happening. And when Zinaida let out that first hint of a wail, everyone fell to their knees and thanked God. Zinaida had been brought back to life. I suppose she was dead for a few minutes . . . maybe five . . . maybe ten—just long enough to lose the oxygen that damaged her brain. But I didn’t know it at the time. And when we got to Sweden she seemed just like any other baby, only far more beautiful. I left her with a family named Oleson. They thought she was an infant who had been abandoned at the convent that I had ‘adopted.’ I was going to London and I promised to send money for her care . . . and send for her as soon as the war ended. You see, I was to stay at Uncle Otto’s. I could not saddle them with a child, and I hoped to get into the ballet. Then I would be able to support her.

“You know the rest. Jeremy found me in a bomb shelter and
I went into pictures. It sounds pat and very easy, but it was such a strange world to me, with a new language to learn . . . I was so shy and thought everyone was laughing at my English, and I had so little confidence in my acting. Dancing was the only thing I knew. But I was able to send Mrs. Oleson good money every week, and she was very kind and sent me pictures of little Zina constantly. Zinaida was about three when the first rumblings of trouble began. Mrs. Oleson’s letters became less enthusiastic. Zinaida was a slow walker . . . she still babbled rather than talked . . . all the other children were ahead of her. At first I tried to tell myself many children were slow—you know how it is. Everyone tells you Einstein didn’t talk until he was five . . . and you push it from your mind. The child would catch up. And then finally Mrs. Oleson sent another letter, asking for permission to institutionalize the child. As she put it, ‘After all, it is not yours, it is an orphan. Why should you waste any more money on it?’”

Karla began to pace the room. “Can you imagine how I felt? I insisted on having the child brought to London . . . to raise it as my own. But Jeremy was the practical one. By then I was quite well known in London, and Jeremy explained that divulging the existence of an illegitimate child—a retarded one at that—would destroy any career I might have. You must remember, this was not 1971, when that sort of thing is now accepted. This was 1946, and an actress with a bastard child would be thrown out of the business. It was Jeremy who went over and got Zinaida. He also arranged for an English birth certificate and selected the names Jones. We put Zinaida in a psychiatric hospital while the neurologists made every possible test. The reports were all the same. Brain damage. She would be teachable. . . . But what mentality she would have, one could not definitely say.” Karla walked across the room and poured herself another brandy. “Well, I suppose we are fortunate in a way—she is ten years old mentally and about six emotionally.”

“But a ten-year-old is capable of doing many things,” Dee said.

Karla nodded. “Unfortunately, you are right. She is pregnant.” Karla walked to the stairs. “And now I must go up and hear her prayers.”

When she came down, Dee was standing by the stairs waiting.

“Karla . . . what are we going to do?”

“We?”

There were tears in Dee’s eyes. “Yes . . .
we
. Oh, God, Karla . . . now I understand so much . . . all the times you disappeared . . . why you’re so . . . so—”

“So cheap?”

“Not cheap . . . but . . .”

“Cheap,” Karla said with a sad smile. “Dee, I do not have the money people think I have. I retired with a quarter of a million dollars. That is invested. I live off the interest and whatever gifts I receive.” She looked at Dee with a faint smile. “Jeremy is getting old. He cannot always call me when things go wrong . . . like now. So I have come here and found a companion for Zinaida. Actually, she is a nurse. But she will not dress as one. She will live with Zinaida and be in constant touch with me. The Harringtons are marvelous people . . . they run the house . . . and do their best . . . But they cannot be with her every second. When Miss Roberts arrives, she will be with Zina constantly. She will ride horses with Zina, play checkers, read to her . . . She will cost me three hundred dollars a week, but I will rest easier. I cannot stay and take care of her . . . the child worships me. When I stay too long she becomes attached. She . . . she tried to make love to me one night.” Karla stood up and threw her hands to the ceiling. “Well, why not? Good God, she has a woman’s body! It craves sex . . . it craves sex wherever it can find it. We have her on tranquilizers now. But it is best I do not stay too long. The psychiatrist we saw . . . he is arranging for a legal abortion.”

“Who was the man?”

“A delivery man, we assume. Who knows? The Harringtons suddenly noticed the morning sickness, the thickening of her waist . . . and they questioned her. She was quite candid. She said a man told her if he put his number-one thing into her number-one thing it would feel good. But she didn’t like it, she said it hurt. We have told her never to do that again, and she says she will not . . . But I shall feel better when Miss Roberts arrives next week.”

“Karla, I want to help.”

Karla smiled and took Dee’s hand. “You have helped. Your checks have helped so very much.”

“No . . . more than that. Look, most people with my kind of money leave it to foundations and charities. I have my foundations and trusts. But I’m also going to do some good while I’m alive. When I go back . . . I’m changing my will immediately. I’ll put ten million into an irrevocable trust for you and Zinaida. I’ll have it worked out so that it can go to you and Zinaida now. The interest alone will be over half a million a year. And when we get back to the States we’ll start the Zinaida Foundation . . . We’ll build a school in her name . . . to help people like Zinaida. We’ll work on it together. And maybe later on we can bring Zinaida back to the States. She and the nurse can live at a guest cottage on the grounds of the Winter Palace. I’ll build a projection room so she can see movies . . . Mike wants one anyway . . . and perhaps we’ll have a big benefit . . . and even teach Zinaida a little speech. Let them see how beautiful a retarded child can be. And you can come out of retirement and tell them she is an adopted godchild of yours . . . use your time and
my
time for something worthwhile. I can stop all those needless luncheons and you can stop those goddamn bar exercises. You’ve got some real work to fill your days now. And so have I. And Karla . . . We’ll work together.” She took Karla into her arms because she suddenly realized that Karla was sobbing.

And that night as they lay in bed together, Karla whispered, “I love you, Dee. I will never leave you. I will never go off again. Now I can breathe easier. You see, Zinaida has no one but me. I always worried—what if I got ill? Perhaps that is why I tried to stay so physically fit. The money I have—I could live fine. But old age or a prolonged illness could wipe it out; and then where would Zinaida be? I couldn’t bear the idea of a state hospital. Also, I will die before Zinaida—the estate I would leave after taxes might not be enough to take care of her for the rest of her life. But now, because of you, for the first time I can live without fear of the future.”

Dee commuted between Grosvenor House and the cottage near Ascot. She waited until Zinaida had the abortion, then
she left for Cannes. Karla would stay with Zinaida for another week, and then they planned to meet back in New York.

Dee sat in her plane and wondered if anyone had ever known the kind of happiness she felt. She would even pretend to like Cannes. She would give Mike a pleasant week. She could afford to be generous. Because when she came back to New York her life was really going to begin . . .

Twenty-six

M
IKE THREW
the third seven in a row. He was having the same kind of hot run he had had that week in Vegas. A large crowd had gathered behind him at the Casino in Monte Carlo. He let the money ride and threw the dice again. His point was eight. He covered the four, five, nine and ten. Then he rolled again. A four came up. He pressed the bet. “Numbers!” he shouted as he rolled the dice. He made a nine. He pressed it . . . then rolled two sixes, a four, three nines, a ten, and another four before making his point. He rolled again. Eleven! He was hot now. His next point was six. He kept rolling, calling for numbers. He made hard eights, fours, tens . . . he pressed as far as the limit would allow. He made eight straight passes, and when he cashed in his francs, he had won close to twenty-five thousand dollars. He kept ten thousand francs in chips and roamed around the Casino.

It had been a good night. But he felt it wasn’t over. He walked past the Chemin de Fer table and yelled Banco. He got the bank and lost. He waited for the next deal and yelled Banco again. He got half the bank and won. Then he waited his turn and took the bank. An hour later he walked away with over a hundred thousand francs. He wandered over to the roulette table where Dee was playing. She played a chip on number thirty-six. He reached out and surrounded it. Number thirty-five won. She stared in amazement as the croupier pushed all the stacks of chips toward him. He took them off the table and walked away. He went to the cashier. All together
he had won close to fifty thousand dollars. Time to quit for the night.

Time to quit. Period. He had spent a week at the Casino without having a losing night. He had found the picture he was looking for. A seamy story about a girl pushing thirty who made her living entering beauty contests. She never won any titles, but she was always up there in the finals. Always in the money. Always on a bus . . . going to another town . . . another contest. He had seen the picture three times before he made his decision.

It had been shot on location in Texas by two young independent producers. They had run short on money and borrowed three hundred thousand from a bank to finish it. Then they came to Cannes, looking for a distribution deal. Mike got 60 percent of the picture by paying off their bank loan and guaranteeing the advertising costs. He ran into Cyril Bean of Century Pictures and talked him into taking a look at the film. Before the film was over, they shook hands. Century would get 35 percent for distribution and share in the costs of advertising. Mike Wayne was back in action again.

He planned to open it at an art house and back it with a big advertising campaign. The girl who played the tired beauty contestant was an Off Broadway actress, unknown to the public. Several of the critics who saw it in Cannes were giving it raves. He couldn’t lose. Even if it wasn’t an all-time box-office winner, it would make a hell of a splash, he’d get his money back. But more important it would put him back in action. The girl was a cinch for an Academy Award nomination. Everything was set. He had the signed contract in his vault at the hotel. He had paid off the bank, and he still had over a half-million dollars in cash . . . and a few more nights at the Casino. Then back to New York. . . .