Chapter Forty-One

SIENNA HAYES IS not acting. For a girl who never finished high school, never met a Jew until she landed in Hollywood, she has done the work. She tells me constantly how much she enjoys the research, delving deep into the Third Reich, Jewish history, and my life. For the past six weeks we have spent full days together discussing my past, chain-smoking (despite warnings from my squad of doctors) and drinking my usual vodka with two limes (to hell with them) and her dirty martini with three blue cheese olives. Sienna asked me early on in our meetings if I should be smoking with the cancer. I asked her if she should be smoking with my cancer. We laughed, happily closed the subject, and jointly lit up.

That’s the thing I relish most about our tête-à-têtes: the laughter. I can’t remember relishing anyone’s company in years as much as I do this young, curious, and surprisingly intuitive starlet, whom I, admittedly, misjudged.

I also like the new pattern in my life that she provides. The early wake-ups, the getting dressed for our daily interviews. The way she rolls into my circular driveway each morning in her two-seater silver Jaguar, sporting oversize Jackie O sunglasses with her long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, the loose tendrils framing her perfect face like a sunflower. Sienna reminds me of a modern young Grace Kelly in her sleek array of smart, colorful pantsuits, carrying a briefcase with a recorder, a notepad, and folders stuffed with historical documents.

But today, it’s not about the cigarettes or martinis or stories from the past. Sienna clearly has something pressing on her mind. I can tell by the way she crosses and uncrosses her legs repeatedly and rapidly tip-taps her yellow pad with her chewed pen cap (an annoying habit I’ve tried to ignore).

“It’s been six weeks and four days, Lena,” she begins firmly, and I can also tell by her newscaster approach that she rehearsed this. The tapping picks up momentum. “It’s time to really fill in the blanks.”

“Ahh, the blanks.” I smile demurely. I know there are holes in my stories—more like craters. I purposely put them there. I lean back, drape my arms lazily over the back of my hunter-green velvet couch, which is more comfortable than it looks. I will do and say what I want about my life, not what she wants. But I admire the girl’s tenacity. I take an extra slow sip of my vodka to cut the tension closing in.

“There’s only one problem with that,” I add with a slight growl, a sound that the media hounds dubbed “wolfish”—especially in my later years when my smoker’s rasp had taken its toll. I will never forgive them for that insult. “If I tell you...”

Sienna throws up her hands dramatically. “I know, I know, Lena. You will have to kill me.”

We share a laugh, but I note by the sharp break in her voice and crossed arms that she’s serious.

“I quite like your outfit today,” I say, buying time, nodding approvingly at her stylish burgundy pantsuit with a thick black belt over the long jacket, and the choker with a silver-dollar-size onyx pendant. Masculine, yet feline and feminine. My style, and hers. A woman should dress up for the truth, I think. Lies are casual, jeans and barefoot. But a good, belted suit with shoulder pads and stilettos demands truth.

“You are trying to divert me. Not going to work this time.” She leans forward, using her chewed pen as an accusatory pointer leading the way. Her almond-shaped eyes narrow. “I’m serious, Lena. I need clarification. How did you and Stan Moss really get away with the on-set explosion? Help me understand the cover-up behind what has been called the worst on-set ‘accident’ in cinema history.” She air-quotes the word “accident” then waits a few elongated moments before dangling a cigarette in front of me. Her version of a bribe. Oh, what the hell. I take it.

I light the cigarette, tuck my perfectly molded still-blond waves behind my ears, revealing large sapphire studs, a gift from the studio after Moon Over Monaco killed it at the box office—and still my favorite pair of earrings. I examine my nails and spot a chip, take my time, and see Sienna growing itchy. She does the leg-crossing thing again. Twice.

“I learned early on that you must make a plan that works, not one that you hope works,” I explain. “No stone was left unturned. Stan and I were prepared, Sienna. We could write the script in our sleep. We grew up at Flagstone and knew every inch of the studio’s back lot and all its storage units—even where the extra toilet paper was kept. It was more of a home to us than our actual homes. Müller didn’t stand a chance once we exacted revenge on our own turf. Stan was right about that.” I smile to myself, still impressed by how we pulled it all off without a hitch. “One take,” I tell her, lifting my signature left brow. “All we had was one shot to get rid of Müller and his followers, and it had to be flawless. ‘A war film that goes awry’—that was our logline and lifeline. There was no room for a single mistake.”

I stand because truth requires two feet on the ground. I see Sienna admiring my outfit too. It’s no different from yesterday’s garb or the day before, just a variation of what has always worked for me. A creamy silk neutral dress shirt with shoulder pads, open at the neck, tucked into high-waisted, wide-leg black pants, with a long gold chain dangling against my sternum, never mind that my aged neck looks like it has tree rings. Never mind that I have worn this same uniform since the fifties. Vogue christened it the “Lena Browning Look”—so why reinvent the mousetrap?

“As I told you, I learned to make bombs in the ghetto. I was taught how to create something out of nothing, using rudimentary materials. But at the studio that day, I was able to make something out of something. Everything I needed for ‘stagecraft’ was already in storage, tucked inside the studio’s armory. We weren’t the only war movie being filmed on set at that time. Stan took what we had in stock, and I made it work for us. I wired the synagogue scenery with real explosives the night before the last scene, replacing the fakes Müller was planning on using. I couldn’t have done this without Stan, who had keys.”

Keys to everything. Stan’s unfettered access to the studio’s inventory was the only way we could have accomplished our mission discreetly and implemented it so seamlessly.

“We also knew that Müller was his own worst enemy. He bragged about his abilities on set constantly, and witnesses later testified that he would go on and on about planning an ‘authentic’ explosion. Those exact words. Only Stan and I knew that the explosives were indeed real, and that Müller’s arrogance could later be used against him. Stan didn’t know about the poisoned schnapps, by the way. That was my added touch—insurance. I kept that part away from Stan in case it was discovered. I was willing to take the fall. Ultimately, he and I would be exonerated of any suspicion of foul play and Los Angeles would be rid of two dozen Nazis. Win-win.”

Sienna’s Cupid-bow lips part wide open. Yes, it was all meticulously premeditated, and now she knows. But I can tell by her raised brow that she is still not satisfied. The pen tapping bit starts up again. “How could you possibly get the timing exactly right?” she presses. “So much could have gone wrong.”

That’s when I break out into a fit of laughter. “Timing, Sienna? That was the one sure thing I could depend on. Nazis have one distinctive quality above all others,” I tell her. “Write this down: Nazis are always on time. Always on schedule. Predictable. The trains to Treblinka and Auschwitz were never late. Nazis were always just following orders, always completing their tasks in a timely manner—no matter if it was murder or rape or robbery or arson. And God knows, those bastards wrote everything down. Every death, every bullet, every stolen painting, every asset, every bank account, every home they looted and destroyed was tallied. Why? you ask.” I feel my eyes distended like a cartoon character’s, and I know it’s not an attractive look. “Bragging rights. Evidence! They were determined to showcase the superiority of the Aryan race, how step by step they annihilated us. And Müller was no different. He was raised on Nazi breast milk and insisted on a minute-by-minute schedule. He ordered Mika to record and save everything—proof of his brilliance as a filmmaker—for his own Third Reich studio archives. Mika, Stan and I both knew, was the key to our success; our on-set stopwatch. My job was to get my hands on her daily schedules, which, of course, I did. And the rest is history.”

I resume my place on the couch again, kick up my mules onto the coffee table, and close my eyes briefly, recalling the details of how a few days before the film’s final shoot, I snuck into Agnes’s Wardrobe trailer where Mika had kept her daily schedules and studio notes neatly organized on a desk in the corner. She was so anal-retentive. “I knew that everything I needed would be there, recorded on Mika’s checklist,” I explain, laughing again, not in a way that’s funny. “I still remember the key item circled in red: ‘five p.m. to five twenty-five p.m. Connie/Schnapps for Cast/No Jews!!!’ Three exclamation marks. ‘Synagogue explosion five thirty to five fifty p.m.’” I shake my head. “Ironically, the ‘No Jews on set’ policy saved us, not them.”

“Weren’t you scared?” Sienna whispers.

“Scared? Hah! Fear is the heart of the whole damn story, young lady. I learned long ago that the secret to fighting back is to become empowered. If you run on fear, you lose, period. I did what I did, Sienna, to never feel scared again.”

Leaning forward, I jab my manicured nail into her yellow notepad on the coffee table. “I had to bring down Müller before fear won. It was him or me. That’s survival. It always comes down to a choice, never a compromise. The choice is ugly. A normal means to an end won’t work. It is those things that one would never do that one must do to survive. I’m not a psychopath. I am an avenger. There’s a difference.”

“You are in your eighties, Lena. Do you know how to do normal?” she asks boldly. Normal. That’s where I draw the line.

It is now a face-off. Sienna does not avert her gaze, and nor do I. Turquoise eyes battle it out as though an ocean tide crashed into the sea. She wants to know if I’m the real monster here. If there is an expiration date on avenging.

“I’m turning eighty-six. Normal?” My voice rises mercilessly. “Normal ceased the day I was dragged out of my home by my hair, the day I lost...” I stop. It’s enough. She knows it all.

Sienna exhales hard, making room for more questions, more hole filling. My entire body is fired up. Normal? You want to go there? C’mon, Sienna, ask me real questions. I know you want to. What will be my last act? How much more venom could one person possibly have inside herself? When does someone like me call it a day?

Sienna picks up the yellow pad, shuffles her notes nervously. “Let’s get back to the scandal surrounding the explosion. Twenty-one people dead on set,” she says as the recorder’s wheels spin.

Splat. I shake my head, disappointed. I gave her an opening to what comes next, to what really matters right now, and she didn’t take it. Back to logistics.

“And one of the dead was Connie.”

“Yes.” I acknowledge my assistant’s unfortunate death. But that’s all I say. Connie’s death still weighs on me. I tried to stop her from sympathizing with the Nazis, but she rejected my help repeatedly. There was nothing else I could do.

Sienna knows by my stony expression that this subject is now ironclad shut. She glances again at her notes, decides to veer in a different direction. I can see even from my end of the couch with my failing eyesight that the word “Vultures” is underlined twice. “Vultures” is code for the Hollywood press. “But the media didn’t believe you. They wouldn’t let the Goddess scandal go for months. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of news stories wrapped around it,” she points out.

“Yes, gossip was fierce, as expected. Think about it: You had the top studio, top director, and me, involved in a terrible ‘on-set accident’–and none of us were considered suspects. All those conspiracy theories...” I roll my eyes, my voice hardening. “So, Stan and I decided to do what anyone facing a Hollywood firing squad would have done.”

Sienna leans back with a cock of her head. “You made another movie, of course, at the peak of the rumormongering. Hollywood scandal guarantees box-office success. The money always wins.”

“Always.”

“The Accidental Affair with Jack Lyons came on the heels of the Goddess disaster,” she announces, as though I don’t know my own movie lineage.

“And that wasn’t an accident either,” I tell her. “Jack was such a lovely, kind man back then—still is—but don’t let that fool you. He is as shrewd as a Swiss banker.”

I close my eyes yet again, savoring the image of our beautiful affair rekindled for the duration of that movie too, and the several times after that when we rendezvoused in London and when Jack was back on location in Los Angeles. I care about him, always will. Naturally, our on-and-off media-hyped love affair faded with new movies, new costars, new love interests. “Jack understood that with all the press surrounding Goddess, everyone would clamor to see my next film. In fact, it was Jack who sent me The Accidental Affair script and begged me to do it, and of course he pleaded with Stan to direct. We knew it was our next move and ran with it.”

“And then Stan went on to win an Oscar that year for best director and Jack won best actor,” Sienna states, like she’s the top student in class giving a book report. Then her face drops, chin to chest. “But there’s more, isn’t there, Lena?” She searches my face; her eyes squint deeply like spikes of sea glass. “I know there’s more.”

“There’s always more,” I echo. My mouth feels dry. Stan is now dead and so are all the others involved. Why not give it to her? I take a deep breath and release the air slowly like a pricked balloon. “A few weeks after the ‘accident,’ Stan and I arranged a private meeting with the FBI. We told them all about Müller and how he blackmailed us. How Nazis in Los Angeles were trying to resurrect the Third Reich into a ‘Fourth Reich.’ I even gave them the address of Das Haus—and left the rest up to them. We later learned that the FBI ransacked the compound and discovered massive amounts of weaponry and illegal explosives—all serving to bolster our case, underscoring our ‘innocence.’ We told them that we had warned Müller not to use real explosives on set, but he insisted that the last scene must be ‘authentic’ and demanded that only Nazis be allowed on set to experience ‘the true destructive beauty.’ Of course, everything we shared with the FBI checked out. As I said, Müller did not make a secret of his bitterness toward Jews on set. There were so many witnesses to back up all our claims, even the cleaning crew testified. When the FBI finished with us, their report put all the blame for the explosion on Michael Müller. Stan and I were completely absolved of any wrongdoing.” I smile at the memory. “Poetic justice.”

I see the shocked look pass over Sienna’s face. “Yes,” I tell her. “We played two truths and a lie with the FBI. But since you’re finally asking some good questions, there’s more. The heads of Flagstone begged us not to go public with the story that we told the FBI. Nazis being given the green light on their studio back lot was the kiss of death for them, not to mention their own insurance claims. In exchange for our silence, Stan and I demanded a three-movie deal, top salary, the best crews, a large percentage of movie sales, distribution approval. And I—”

“Became the highest paid actress of your time.”

I clasp my hands together like cymbals. “And now you know why.”

“But—” Sienna stops herself.

“You can say it.” I feel the tightness inside my chest. “I lost for best actress the same year that Stan and Jack won. To Susan Hayward. I lost four more times after that. The highest paid actress, nominated for numerous Oscars and awards, has never won the gold.”

Sienna nods quietly. “You should have won.”

I run my hand through my hair. “The only guarantee in Hollywood is that there are no guarantees.” I stand once again and take a seventh-inning stretch. I am tired, it’s getting late. Today’s discussion depleted me. Sienna stands, too, knowing it’s a wrap for the day. But I am proud of her. She’s no pushover.

“Look in my eyes, Sienna,” I tell her as she gathers her things. “It’s time to ask the final question. I mean, really look. Tell me... do I look like I’m done here?”

Her breath catches in her throat. I can see the lump rise in her bare, beautiful, lineless neck. We both know I’m not talking about being exhausted, needing a catnap before dinner.

She presses her sensual lips together, then lightly licks them. “The last act,” she whispers. “Whatever it is that you’re planning is going to happen on my watch, isn’t it? In real time.” She points her cigarette at me. “You want that Oscar.”

“Clever girl,” I say with a penetrating gaze. But, sadly for you, not that clever.

“Oscar is the only man in Hollywood I never slept with. So yes, I intend to make his bed my last one.”

Once again, two truths and a lie—my specialty.