Part 17 (1/2)
”We start shooting at 10:30,” Bowen said. ”Try to be here by 7. This is smartest dog I've ever seen in my life, but he's still going to need a lot of grooming work.” He shook his head and walked away.
Joshua walked up. ”Well?” he said.
”You're going to be in a Mighty Dog commercial,” I said.
”Well, all right, then,” Joshua said. ”I would hate to be a.s.sociated with anything that wasn't 100% pure beef, you know.”
Chapter Thirteen.
On September 1, 1939, n.a.z.i Germany began World War II by bombing the h.e.l.l out of the Polish capital of Warsaw. By September 27, the Germans were dipping their feet in the Vistula river, which bisects the city; shortly thereafter, the Jews of Warsaw were herded into the Warsaw Ghetto -- 500,000 of them, initially, in an area roughly one mile square. In July of 1942, the n.a.z.is began deporting the Jews en ma.s.se from the ghetto. Between July 22 and October 3, 300,000 were deported to the various concentration camps -- Treblinka and Chelmno were the closest to the city of Warsaw -- and exterminated. In April of 1943, the 40,000 or so Jews who remained in the ghetto were attacked by the n.a.z.is. They fought back, heroically, for three weeks. And then nearly all of them were killed.
One who survived was Rachel Spiegelman. In pre-War times, Rachel and her family were well-to-do professionals; the daughter and granddaughter of physicians, Rachel herself had studied law and worked as the office manager of her husband's law firm. In addition to Polish and Yiddish, she spoke German and English, and had even been to America as a child, to visit family members who had emigrated there. She was a daughter and wife of privilege, and the fall from having servants and summer homes to living six to a room in the ghetto was a long one.
And yet, inasmuch as one can in the circ.u.mstances, Rachel thrived. She was tough-minded and sensible -- and also formidable. When the n.a.z.is informed the ghetto residents that they were to form Jewish councils that would oversee housing, sanitation and manufacturing production, she forbade any member of her family from joining the councils, declaring that those who worked with the Germans were leading the rest to the slaughter. When her husband disobeyed her and served on a council, Rachel threw him out of the room that they shared with Rachel's parents, her brother, and her brother's wife.
She then organized her neighborhood to operate around the councils and clashed with them repeatedly over their edicts. With a young Pole who was rumored to be her lover, she operated a black market, somehow finding meat and sweets when the Germans allowed only turnips and beets to be sent into the ghetto. When the n.a.z.is ordered the Jewish councils to find ”volunteers” for deportation, Rachel , working desperately, found her neighbors work in armament plants or hid them, delaying but ultimately failing to stem the death flow out of the ghetto. She fought alongside the remaining Jews during the ghetto uprising for two weeks, one of the very few women left in the ghetto to do so; in the third week, against her better judgment, she attempted to escape the ghetto with her young Pole. They actually did it, only to be turned in by one the Pole's ”friends”. He was shot and killed; she was sent to Treblinka.
From April until the beginning of August, Rachel slaved in the camp; on August 3rd, it was decided that she was no longer needed. She was sent a mile up the road to Treblinka II, where the ”bathhouses” were. These bathhouses were connected to huge diesel engines that pumped in carbon monoxide -- deadly, but not very efficient. It typically took nearly a half hour before the hundreds crammed inside the ”bathhouses” died. It was a long and terrifying death, and between 700,000 and 900,000 people died that way, in that camp.
On August 3rd, however, there were some surprising deaths at Treblinka II; namely, an SS officer and several guards. They were killed by some of the Jews who worked at the camp, performing the executions, excavating the corpses for gold teeth and other valuables, and transporting the bodies to ma.s.s graves. The Jews chose that day to attempt a revolt, and while it was not successful, over 200 Jews escaped the camp during the chaos. Rachel was one of them. Most of the escapees were eventually recaptured or killed. Rachel was not. Rachel went north, eventually finding pa.s.sage to Sweden. After the war ended, she emigrated from there to the United States.
Rachel's story would be remarkable enough if it had ended there. But it did not. Once Rachel arrived in the US, she was outraged to discover that her adopted country, the one that had fought for the freedom of Europe, was dealing with Black Americans like the Germans dealt with the Jews. Even some of the laws were effectively the same -- No intermarriage, segregated schools and services, and violence either ignored or actively condoned by those whose job it was to keep the peace. ”There are black s.h.i.+rts beneath those white robes,” she would later write.
So she did something about it. She went back to law school and got her J.D. -- and the next day got on a bus to Montgomery, Alabama, the Heart of Dixie. She pa.s.sed the bar and set up shop: a female, Jewish lawyer, offering legal services to black sharecroppers and factory workers. Her office was firebombed twice in the first month. The next, someone drove by and put a bullet through her window. It ricocheted and struck her in the leg. She went to the hospital to have it removed, and was denied medical help by the emergency room resident, who refused to work on a ”n.i.g.g.e.r-loving Jew.” Rachel responded by prying out the bullet herself, right there, slamming it down on the resident's clip board, and walking out under her own power. Then she sued the hospital and the resident. She won. Her office was firebombed again.
She stayed on -- on through the Montgomery Bus Boycott of 1955, when she bought her first car to avoid riding the buses and ferried black friends to and from work. On through the Birmingham protests of 1963, when she was arrested twice by white policemen and bitten three times by their dogs. On through Martin Luther King's 1965 march from Selma to Montgomery, when she and King walked arm-in-arm as they strode past her offices, now staffed with partners -- half of them black.
Just before she died in 1975, she wrote in Time magazine, ”I feel the work I have done was the work I was destined to do. I know what it is to lose my rights and to be told that I have no right to exist, to see my family, my friends and my humanity stripped away from me. These are hard memories, couched in sorrow and anger. But I also know what it is to see others begin to gain their rights and their humanity, to be told, yes, you are our brothers and sisters. Come join us at the family table, and be welcome. My work, though such a small part of a larger whole, has helped to make this a reality. It makes those hard memories a little easier to bear, because these memories -- they are glorious.”
This is the woman that Mich.e.l.le Beck wanted to portray. Could she do it?
Well, she was the right s.e.x.
By the time Mich.e.l.le and I waited in Roland Lanois' anteroom, however, any hint that I felt Mich.e.l.le to be utterly wrong for the role had vanished. After a certain point as an agent, you simply stop worrying about the far-reaching implications of what you are doing and deal with the at-the-moment details. Some would call it enforced amorality. But it's really just a matter of being there for your client, and doing what needs to be done. At the moment, I was trying to keep Mich.e.l.le from hyperventilating.
”Breathe,” I said. ”Respiration is a good thing.”
”I'm so sorry, Tom,” Mich.e.l.le said. She was gripping both sides of her chair so hard it looked like she might dent the metal. ”I'm just so nervous. I didn't think I would be. But I am. Oh, G.o.d,” she said. She started thumping her chest with her fist. ”Oh, Tom, I'm sorry.” She sounded like a helicopter.
I grabbed the fist before she could break her ribs. ”Stop apologizing. You haven't done anything wrong. It's okay to be nervous, Mich.e.l.le. This is a pretty big role. But I don't think you need to bruise yourself over it. Have you read the scene Roland wants you to do?”
”Yes,” she said, and then grinned sheepishly. ”I actually memorized the whole thing. All the parts. I didn't want to blow it. Isn't that stupid?”
”No, not really,” I said. ”You know, when Elvis started work on his very first film, he memorized the entire script. All the parts, not just his own. No one told him there was any other way to do it.”
Mich.e.l.le looked at me, confused. ”Elvis was an actor?”
”Well, I don't know that I'd go that far,” I said. ”But he was in movies. Jailhouse Rock. Love Me Tender. Blue Hawaii.”
”I thought those were songs,” Mich.e.l.le said.
”They are songs,” I agreed. ”But they're also movies.”
”Oh, great,” Mich.e.l.le said. ”Now Elvis songs are going on in my head.” She stood up and started pacing. Watching her was making me tired.
Rajiv, Roland's a.s.sistant, came out of Roland's office. ”Okay,” he said. ”We're setting up the video camera, so if you want to come on in, we'll get started right away.”
Mich.e.l.le took in a sharp intake of breath; it sounded like she was trying to inhale the ficus plant on the other side of the office. Rajiv jumped slightly at the noise.
”Give us just a minute,” I said.
”No rush,” Rajiv said, and closed the door.
”Oh G.o.d,” Mich.e.l.le said, wringing her hands. ”Oh G.o.d oh G.o.d oh G.o.d oh G.o.d.”
I went over and started ma.s.saging her shoulders. ”Come on, Mich.e.l.le,” I said. ”This is what you wanted.”
”G.o.d, Tom,” Mich.e.l.le said. ”Why am I so nervous? I've never been this nervous about an audition before.”
”It's because you're finally using a script that has words longer than two syllables,” I said.
Mich.e.l.le wheeled around and pushed me, semi-hard, in the chest. ”You're a jerk,” she said.
”Noted,” I said. ”On the other hand, you're not hyperventilating any more. Now, come on. Let's do this thing.” I took her hand, walked her to the office door, and opened it.
Inside was Roland, his a.s.sistant Rajiv, and a woman that I did not recognize. Roland and the woman were sitting comfortably on the couch; Rajiv was standing over a video camera, fiddling with something.
Roland got up and strode over to us as we came through the door. ”Tom,” he said. ”A pleasure to see you again. I hope you are well.”
”I am, Roland, thanks,” I said, and motioned to Mich.e.l.le. ”This is my client, Mich.e.l.le Beck.”
”But of course. Miss Beck. The woman who has driven my poor a.s.sistant to traitorous activity. It is a pleasure.” Roland took Mich.e.l.le's hand, and in a playfully dramatic fas.h.i.+on, kissed it. Mich.e.l.le smiled uncertainly and glanced over to me. I gave a shrug that said go with it.
”And now, if you'll both allow me to make introductions of my own,” Roland said. ”First, Miss Beck, I should like to introduce you Rajiv Patel, my a.s.sistant, with whom you have had many long and interesting phone conversations. I believe somewhere in the office he may have erected a shrine to you.”
Rajiv was dark-skinned enough that it was somewhat astonis.h.i.+ng to be able to see his blush. ”h.e.l.lo, Mich.e.l.le,” he said, and went back to fooling around with the video camera.
”And this,” he said, turning to the woman on the couch, ”Is Avika Spiegelman, who is one of the a.s.sistant producers of the film.”
I walked over to shake her hand. ”A pleasure,” I said. ”Are you related to Rachel Spiegelman?”
”She was my aunt,” she said. ”Actually my second cousin, or cousin twice removed, or whatever you'd like to call it. But we all called her 'Aunt Rachel.' It was simpler that way.”
”In addition to being one of our producers, Ms. Spiegelman is acting as an advisor to the film, giving us insight to the real Rachel Spiegelman,” Roland said. ”As such, I thought it might be prudent to have her give us her thoughts.”