QB VII (17 page)

“Abe, we’ll make them laugh, cry, die with those boys up there. I got a call into the front office. I’m pitching for Cary [Grant], Clark [Gable], or Spence [er Tracy] for the lead.”

“But, Milt. Maybe Tracy but Grant and Gable aren’t my idea of Italian fathers.”

“Cary and Clark don’t play anyone’s father. You got to know actors, kid. They don t like growing old. Actually I had in mind using Cary for the part of Barney.”

“Cary Grant, a twenty-three-year-old Jewish boy from the slums of New York?”

“We got to update a little. I was thinking of this General Bertelli character. Reads nice in the book, but do we really want to glorify wops when we’re at war with them?”

“Bertelli is American born. ...”

“Sure, I know that, you know that. But he’s still a wop to the great American Midwest. If we make the Bertellis heroes the boys in the front office in New York will have a hemorrhage. After all they’re banking and distributing the flick. There’s rules. Don’t glorify wops, nigs got to be dumb like animals, krauts have got to be comic, and most of all, don’t say you’re Jewish on the screen.”

“But Barney is a Jew.”

“Look, Abe, and I say this with all sincerity and thinking back to a similar story line I licked on the Hemingway flick, let’s don’t get the father-son thing in the way of the action. I draw on my experience to tell you this with honesty. Barney as a Jew won’t go.”

“The book is about two Italians and one Jew.”

“Yeah. We got to lack it in the head. It won’t play. The public likes ... Irishmen. What we need is a big tough Irishman with a screwy little side-kick. Frank McHugh type. The way I see, Cary [Grant] or Jim [James Cagney] or Duke [John Wayne] as a hot pilot always beefing with his colonel, a fine character actor like Alan [Hale].

It went like this for several weeks and one day Abe said, “Milton. Go fuck yourself.”

What Cady did not know was that Mandelbaum was fighting for his life. After a dozen flops, enormous and dubious expenses charged to his productions, a scandal with a sixteen-year-old starlet, the self-proclaimed savior of American Global was on the ropes.
The Jug
was to be his last con job. Cady could write. Mandelbaum couldn’t read. In London, there was no button to press to give the script a onceover from a tried and true hack. He had to make it go with Cady, or else.

As Abe started to stomp from the suite, sincere, ethical Milton Mandelbaum said, “Sit down. We’ve been going at it hard. Let’s talk things over.”

“Who can talk with you in the room? It’s greasy crumbs like you who’ve lied and cheated Hollywood into its state of a low mentality insult. Get yourself another writer.”

J. Milton hissed in a snake’s voice, “Sit down, Abe. We’ve got a contract, sweetheart, and if you pull a stunt like this you’re blackballed for life. What’s more you’ll never sell another one of your books.”

“But, Milton. You told me that any time I was unhappy and wanted out, just to walk through the door.”

“Now wait a minute, Cady. I had a lot of trouble selling you. The committee knows your brother was a Commie.”

“You son-of-a-bitch.”

He grabbed Mandelbaum by the lapels of his war correspondent’s jacket and shook him with such fury his glasses flew off his face. He flung him to the floor, where Milton crawled around like a blind man, found his glasses, doubled over with pain from his ulcer and cried.

“Abie, don’t leave me! My enemies at the studio will fry me. We’ve got eight hundred thou on the line, starting dates, actors, sets, costumes. All my life I’ve fought for principle, and I get crapped on.”

Abe stayed on the film. Strangely, Mandelbaum let him write what he wished. What he did not know was that Mandelbaum picked up a pair of stumble bums and paid them a few thousand dollars to write behind Abe’s back. The pair would remain anonymous, taking Cady’s scenes and warping them into Mandelbaum’s jibberish.

When Abe left the film, he felt a great sense of relief.

“Every great script, every great film,” J. Milton Mandelbaum said, “is written with sweat. We got to have a few lover’s quarrels. No, Abe, it would be better if you don’t come around the set. Your job is done. We’ll carry the ball now. Directors get jittery with writers around. They’re damned prima donnas. But ...we got to have them. Rigging actors are dog meat. Those people don’t know how to treat a writer with respect, like I do.”

Mercifully, the title of the film was changed to
The Screaming Eagles
and no one really remembered it as based on the Cady novel. Abe quietly had his name removed. The film made money. It was in a time that any dogfight piloted by Flynn or Cagney was box office. And so, flushed with a success and a new lease on life, Mandelbaum returned to resume his honorable career.

11

I ENDURED THAT MOST AWFUL MOMENT WHEN I RETURNED TO NORFOLK AFTER THE WAR AND REALIZED MOMMA AND POPPA HAD GROWN VERY OLD. THE STEP WAS SLOWER, THEIR GLASSES WERE THICKER, THEIR HAIR WAS GRAYER, AND THERE WERE SPELLS OF ABSENTMINDEDNESS. ON MANY OCCASIONS MOMMA CALLED ME, “BEN.”

NORFOLK HAD GROWN SMALL. ABSENCE HAD MADE MY MIND PLAY TRICKS. THE HOUSE THAT I REMEMBERED AS SO LARGE AND AIRY WAS REALLY LITTLE AND MY ROOM WAS TINY. DISTANCES AROUND THE CITY WERE SHORT, PARTICULARLY IN CONTRAST TO THE VASTNESS OF LONDON.

SAMANTHA WAS A FISH OUT OF WATER, AND I WAS GETTING TO FEEL HER ATTEMPTS AT READJUSTMENT IN AMERICA WERE NOT TOTALLY HONEST. NONETHELESS, WE ANTICIPATED STARTING LIFE TOGETHER. NEW CHILD, A FEW THOUSAND DOLLARS IN THE BANK, NEW CAR. SHAWCROSS HAD BROUGHT OUT A BOOK OF MY WARTIME UNITED PRESS COLUMNS, AND THEY WERE BEING RECEIVED BETTER THAN WE ANTICIPATED.

ANYHOW SAMANTHA AND THE BABY AND I WOULD FIND OUR PLACE. THE SOUTH WAS OUT. BEN’S DREAM HAD NOT COME TRUE. THERE WERE FAINT STIRRINGS. SEVERAL HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF NEGROES WERE HAVING THEIR FIRST CHANCE AT AN EDUCATION THROUGH THE G.I. BILL OF RIGHTS AND THEY’D NEVER GO BACK TO THE WAY THINGS WERE. AT THE END OF WORLD WAR II THE FREEDOM SMELL WAS NOT YET IN THE AIR, BUT I FELT IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN IN MY LIFETIME AND WHEN IT DID I’D COME TO THE SOUTH AGAIN AND WRITE ABOUT IT.

FROM THE DATE THE WAR ENDED, POPPA AND HIS BROTHER HYMAN IN PALESTINE PUT ON A DESPERATE SEARCH FOR THEIR FATHER, TWO BROTHERS AND OVER TWO DOZEN RELATIVES LAST HEARD FROM IN POLAND SIX YEARS AGO.

BY THE TIME I ARRIVED FROM ENGLAND WITH SAMANTHA AND THE BABY SOME OF THE HORROR STORY HAD ALREADY FILTERED BACK. MY FATHER’S HOME, PRODNO, WAS WALLED OFF AS A GHETTO. LATER, THE JEWS WERE ROUNDED UP AS CATTLE AND SLAUGHTERED IN THE JADWIGA CONCENTRATION CAMP.

AFTER A TIME CONFIRMATION CAME FROM THE HANDFUL OF JEWISH SURVIVORS THAT MADE ALL HOPE DIMINISH. THEY HAD BEEN MURDERED, ALL OF THEM. MY GRANDFATHER, THE RABBI OF PRODNO, WHOM I NEVER KNEW, MY UNCLES AND THIRTY MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY.

ONLY ONE CADYZYNSKI, A COUSIN, SURVIVED BY FIGHTING IN A PARTISAN UNIT. AFTER THE HOLOCAUST HE WAS MADE TO UNDERGO A NIGHTMARISH ODYSSEY IN AN ATTEMPT TO GET TO THE ONLY PLACE IN THE WORLD THAT WOULD TAKE HIM, JEWISH PALESTINE. HE TRIED TO RUN THE BRITISH BLOCKADE IN A TUGBOAT ONLY TO BE TURNED BACK AND INTERNED IN GERMANY. ON THE THIRD TRY, HE MADE IT.

WHEN THE STATE OF ISRAEL WAS DECLARED IN 1948 MY UNCLE HYMAN HAD THREE SONS IN THE WAR. ONE OF THEM WAS KILLED FIGHTING FOR THE OLD CITY OF
JERUSALEM.

THE GRIEF OF MY FATHER OVER THE HOLOCAUST WOULD REMAIN WITH HIM TILL THE END OF HIS LIFE.

AFTER SPANNING THE VASTNESS OF AMERICA AND LEARNING MY OWN COUNTRY FOR THE FIRST TIME I FELL IN LOVE WITH SAN FRANCISCO AND THE BAY AREA. MONTEREY, MARIN, ALL OF IT. A WRITER’S MAGNET FROM JACK LONDON TO STEINBECK TO SAROYAN TO MAXWELL ANDERSON. THIS WAS THE PLACE. SAUSALITO, I THOUGHT. UP IN THE HILLS LOOKING DOWN TO THE WATER AND OVER THE BAY TO THE IVORY SAMARKAND OF SAN FRANCISCO.

SAMANTHA WAS ONE WOMAN I COULD READ. SHE SUFFERED A LOT AWAY FROM LINSTEAD HALL.

I THOUGHT I’D BETTER COMPROMISE AND BEGAN LOOKING FOR PROPERTY IN THE CARMEL VALLEY. IT WAS A FAIR BARGAIN. THE VALLEY WAS FILLED WITH WHITE OAKS AND OLD THICK SPANISH RANCH HOUSES THAT STAYED COOL EVEN IN MIDSUMMER. THE COASTLINE PLUNGED DOWN TO A ROARING SEA ALONG BANKS OF WILDFLOWERS AND CYPRESSES TORTURED BY THE WIND. CARMEL WAS ARTSY-CRAFTSY AND THERE WAS A TOUCH OF CLOSENESS WITH STEINBECK IN THE CREAKING FISHING BOATS OF MONTEREY AND THE GLORIOUS AROMAS OF CANNERY ROW. AND ALL OF IT WAS WITHIN REACH OF SAN FRANCISCO. WELL, SAMANTHA ...WHAT ABOUT IT?

SO, I RATIONALIZED WITH MYSELF. NOBODY MAKES A PERFECT MARRIAGE, RIGHT? WITH ALL HER MOANING I HAPPENED TO LOVE MY WIFE AND GOD KNOWS, I’D NEVER ENTERTAIN THE THOUGHT OF SEPARATING FROM MY SON.

SAMANTHA HAD A POINT. HER ONLY BROTHER HAD BEEN KILLED FIGHTING IN FRANCE. SHE WAS THE HEIR TO LINSTEAD HALL. AND AFTER HER, LITTLE BEN. HER PARENTS WERE AGING AND IT WOULD HAVE BEEN TRAGIC TO THINK OF THE TWO HUNDRED YEAR TRADITION OF LINSTEAD HALL COMING TO AN END.

GOT IT? I’M TALKING MYSELF INTO SOMETHING.

GRANTED, I DON’T LIKE HORSES. ALL THEY WANT IS TO BE FED. IN RETURN, THEY ARE UNFAITHFUL, THEY’LL KICK YOU IN THE HEAD, THROW YOU AND MAKE PILES OF HORSE SHIT. BUT ON THE OTHER HAND, I DON’T HAVE TO SLEEP WITH THEM, NOT EVEN IN LINSTEAD HALL. I INTEND TO HAVE A MOTORCYCLE.

THE THOUGHT OF BEN GROWING UP WITHOUT KNOWING THE BEAUTY OF BASEBALL IS A BIT ANNOYING, BUT HE’S GOING TO FRIGGING-A KNOW HOW TO FLY A PLANE BY THE TIME HE’S SIXTEEN. SAMANTHA ISN’T GOING TO WEEP ME OUT OF THAT ONE.

AFTER ALL, WHAT’S SO BAD ABOUT ENGLAND? I’D COME TO LOVE IT ALMOST AS MUCH AS AMERICA. LONDON? ONLY THE GREATEST CITY IN THE WORLD. WHEN YOU GET RIGHT DOWN TO THE NITTY-GRITTY I’VE DONE MOST OF MY WRITING IN ENGLAND AND MY MOST CHERISHED DREAM IS TO WRITE A BOOK ABOUT ISRAEL, SOMEDAY.

I WAVERED A LOT. SOME DAYS I GOT LIVID WITH THE IDEA THAT SAMANTHA HAD THE RIGHT TO TELL AN AUTHOR WHERE HE HAD TO WORK. AND THEN I GOT A CALL FROM MY SISTER SOPHIE THAT MOMMA HAD DIED IN HER SLEEP FROM A STROKE AND WE ALL RUSHED BACK TO NORFOLK.

I CONVINCED POPPA HE SHOULDN’T RATTLE AROUND IN THAT HOUSE ALL BY HIMSELF. SOPHIE OFFERED TO TAKE HIM IN IN BALTIMORE BUT THE OFFER WAS HALF ASSED. I’VE GOT TO SAY SAMANTHA WAS A GOOD DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. SHE INSISTED HE COME BACK WITH US TO ENGLAND. THERE WAS ALL KINDS OF ROOM IN LINSTEAD HALL, AND HE COULD HAVE HIS OWN LITTLE COTTAGE. POPPA WAS ULTRA SENSITIVE ABOUT BEING A BURDEN BUT IT MADE SENSE.

WHEN HE SOLD OUT THE BAKERY DURING THE WAR, HE GOT TAKEN BY A COUPLE OF GONIFFS WHO LET IT RUN INTO THE GROUND AND IT FINALLY WENT INTO BANKRUPTCY. WHAT LITTLE MONEY POPPA HAD WAS GONE. HE HAD GIVEN MOST OF IT AWAY DURING HIS LIFETIME FOR RELATIVES AND THE JEWS IN PALESTINE.

FOR A WHILE EVERYTHING WAS FINE. WE RESETTLED IN ENGLAND, AND I BEGAN WORK ON A NEW NOVEL WHICH WAS GOING TO BE MY BEST. THE LINSTEADS WERE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE AND POPPA WAS THE GRANDFATHER TO END THEM ALL.

IN I947 SAMANTHA GAVE US A DAUGHTER. PERSONALLY, I WANTED TO NAME HER AFTER MOMMA, BUT I GOT TO NAME BEN SO I DIDN’T KICK TOO MUCH. VANESSA CADY. NOT BAD.

I NOTICED HALFWAY THROUGH WRITING MY NOVEL THAT POPPA STARTED TURNING RELIGIOUS. IT HAPPENS TO A LOT OF JEWISH PEOPLE WHO GO AWAY FROM FAITH. IN THE END, IT SEEMS, THEY ALL WANT TO BE JEWS AGAIN. THE CLOSING OF THE CIRCLE.

WHEN I SUGGESTED HE GO TO ISRAEL HE BROKE DOWN AND CRIED. I NEVER SAW MY FATHER CRY BEFORE, EVEN WHEN BEN AND MOMMA DIED. I ASSURED HIM IT WOULDN’T BE A BURDEN ON ME. MY UNCLE HYMAN HAD A PLACE IN TEL AVIV AND HE WOULD BE WELCOMED WITH OPEN ARMS.

ACTUALLY THINGS WEREN’T GOING WELL AT LINSTEAD HALL. JOE FARMER, I’M NOT. I WAS THINKING OF PUTTING A TORCH TO THE PLACE AND COLLECTING THE INSURANCE BUT YOU HANG ON. TRADITIONS DIE VERY SLOWLY IN ENGLAND. AND MOTHER OF PEARL, AM I HUNG WITH A TRADITION! SO, I BORROW AND PLOW FORWARD ON MY NOVEL. I DON’T FEEL PIOUS ABOUT SENDING MY FATHER TO ISRAEL. HE GAVE TO EVERYONE ALL HIS LIFE, AND HE DESERVED IT. I ARRANGED HIS PASSAGE AND BOUGHT A SMALL FLAT FOR HIM AND SAW THAT HE HAD A LIVABLE INCOME.

LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING. THE SAME THING THAT WAS KILLING POPPA WAS KILLING ME. IT BURNED MY GUTS, TORE AT MY EYES, RIPPED AT ME DAY AND NIGHT. I WAS SICK AT HEART AT WHAT HAPPENED TO THE JEWS IN POLAND AND GERMANY.

THIS IS WHAT I CRAVED TO WRITE ABOUT. AS SOON AS THE NOVEL WAS DONE, WE’D BE OUT OF THE HOLE AND I’D GO AND LIVE IN ISRAEL AND WRITE ABOUT IT. GOD I WANTED IT. GOD I WANTED IT!

POPPA DIED IN HIS SLEEP JUST AS I FINISHED MY BOOK. MY UNCLE HYMAN WROTE THAT SEEING ISRAEL REBORN ALLOWED HIM TO GO TO HIS REST IN PEACE.

ON MY FATHER’S GRAVE I SWORE I WOULD WRITE A BOOK TO SHAKE THE CONSCIENCE OF THE HUMAN RACE.

AND THEN THE WORST HAPPENED. MY NOVEL, “THE PARTISANS” WAS PUBLISHED AND LAID AN EGG. ALL THREE AND A HALF YEARS AND SIX HUNDRED AND TWENTY PAGES OF IT BOMBED WITH CRITICS AND READERS ALIKE. ABRAHAM CADY WAS UP THE PROVERBIAL CREEK WITHOUT PADDLE ONE.

12

IF SAMANTHA HAD AN OUTSTANDING SINGLE QUALITY IT WAS HER ABILITY TO PUT A NEEDLE UP MY BUTT. SHE INSISTED SHE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHY “THE PARTISANS” WAS A FLOP. IT WAS, AFTER ALL, HER VERY FAVORITE OF ALL MY BOOKS.

I’LL TELL TOO WHY SHE LIKED IT. IT WAS A FAILURE AND BROUGHT ME DOWN TO HER LEVEL OF MEDIOCRITY. IT TOOK A LONG TIME, A MORTGAGE OVER MY HEAD AND TWO BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN TO COME RIGHT OUT AND ADMIT IT, BUT SAMANTHA WAS A DULL WOMAN WITH AN INFERIORITY COMPLEX AS DEEP AS THE GRAND CANYON AND AS IMPOSSIBLE TO FILL. SHE WAS INCAPABLE OF LIFTING THE INTELLECTUAL CONTENT OF ANY CONVERSATION OR EVENT, AND SHE WAS FRIGHTENED OUTSIDE THE FAMILIAR ELEMENT OF LINSTEAD HALL.