‘Not the same as it was, back in the twenties, but not so different. It’s still the city you fall in love with, despite the politics.’
‘Pretty grim, all this hostility, no?’
‘It is. The French didn’t used to be so, um, concentrated on it. Before, it was more like a game, but now it’s a war.’
Wilkinson nodded, I’m glad you agree with me. ‘I’ll tell you something, by trade I’m a lawyer in a Wall Street firm, but I worked for the Roosevelt campaigns in ’32 and ’36 and, believe me, there was plenty of rough stuff going on. But, compared to France, in the last few years, it was child’s play. And now, with war coming…’ He paused, then said, ‘I saw an announcement of your arrival in the Paris Herald and I admit I wondered, I mean, what the hell made you come here now?’
‘Jack Warner,’ Stahl said.
Wilkinson laughed, a bass rumble, and his eyes lit up. ‘I should’ve figured that out,’ he said. ‘But there’s a story about Jack Warner which might explain it. A few years ago, the Warner Bros. representative in Berlin, a man named Joe Kaufmann, was beaten to death by Nazi Brown Shirts — they didn’t like it that he was a Jew — and Warner closed the Berlin office. Then he started to make anti-fascist movies, and he got letters threatening to burn his house down. The other moguls, Goldwyn and Harry Cohn and the rest, don’t want to get involved, but Jack Warner decided to fight, bless his heart.’
‘Well, the decision to have one of his actors do a movie in Paris came from the top, from Jack Warner, personally.’
‘Glad you came? Showing the flag?’
‘I’m not sorry. Actors are told, “always avoid politics, it’s bad for the box office”, but I found out right away you can’t.’
‘How so, found out?’
‘Two weeks ago I was caught in a street march and got hit in the face with a steel rod. That’s the worst, but it started earlier. I was invited to a cocktail party — a salon — and they carried on like crazy, peace with Germany, peace with Germany, all we want is peace.’
From Wilkinson, a knowing smile. ‘Which hostess? There are four or five — they’re infamous.’
‘The Baroness von Reschke. What a terror! And there was someone else, a man called, what’s his name, he makes champagne, DeMotte? No, LaMotte. Philippe I think.’
‘Ah yes, the Comite Franco-Allemagne, a Nazi propaganda outfit.’
Stahl stared at Wilkinson. ‘You mean… literally? Nazi as in managed from Berlin?’
Slowly, Wilkinson nodded up and down. ‘Yes indeedy. You’re shocked?’
‘I guess I am. Isn’t that, um, espionage?’
‘Properly called “political warfare”. One form of espionage.’
‘The French government must know what’s going on, can’t they do something about it?’
‘They know everything, but they don’t do anything.’
‘Why not?’
Wilkinson raised his eyebrows, surprised that Stahl didn’t know the answer. ‘Political repercussions?’ he said, as though reminding Stahl about the nature of the world. ‘Politicians in power have to run for re-election, so what are they handing their opponents? They’ll be accused of being against peace, against negotiations; they’ll be called warmongers. And they’ll lose the election, which means leaving Paris, and going back to some town in the Auvergne. But that’s only one part of it, the other part is worse. The French know they were finished in 1917, and they were, until American troops showed up. So they’re scared to death they’ll push Hitler too far, scared to death of war — they lost a million and a half men the last time, and more than twice that wounded. And they know they’ll lose again if the Wehrmacht crosses the border.’
‘But, the Maginot Line…’
Wilkinson sighed, burdened by knowing more than was good for him. ‘The Maginot Line is a political tactic of the French right. Supposedly it protects the nation, which believes in it as though it were magic, which means the French won’t fully mobilize, won’t spend enough money on armament, and won’t invade Germany. It virtually pleads for Hitler’s mercy, and it won’t work. It’s meant to delay, as the French wait for the British to show up, and then they both wait for America. Meanwhile Hitler builds offensive weapons, tanks and warplanes.’ He moved a marble pen stand to the centre of his desk, picked up a stapler and circled it above the marble stand, then pressed the top and a staple popped out and clicked against the stand. ‘I could make an airplane noise, but you get the idea. That used to be the Maginot Line.’
‘So what can they do?’
Wilkinson shrugged.
Stahl was silent for a moment, trying to sort out what Wilkinson had told him. If his statements about the baroness and LaMotte were true, then some very rich and powerful people in Paris were working for the enemy. Finally he said, ‘What do they want with me, these people?’
‘You’re an important person, Mr Stahl, well known, respected, from a powerful part of the world. People will listen to what you say, they may even change their minds. I recall you once played a doctor, is that right?’
‘Dr Lawton, in A Fortunate Woman.’
‘That’s it. Kindly Dr Lawton — strong, wise, and compassionate. Who wouldn’t believe Dr Lawton? All this together, your status, and your character on screen, add up to what we call an “agent of influence”.’
Stahl saw this was true, and became acutely uncomfortable. ‘Should I make some kind of, what, public statement?’
‘What would you say? “I believe in democracy”? “I believe in America”? That would be fine with the Germans, America doesn’t want to fight a war any more than the French do. We have our own Maginot Line, it’s called the Atlantic Ocean.’
‘Then the hell with these people, I don’t have to go to their salons.’
‘You certainly don’t. But that doesn’t mean they won’t put pressure on you.’
‘Why would they?’
‘The people in Berlin, in von Ribbentrop’s Foreign Ministry, are persistent when they want something. And their people in Paris take orders, so…’
Now Stahl started to get mad. Why was this happening? Why him? He wanted nothing to do with the whole rotten business.
Wilkinson read him perfectly. ‘Don’t blame me for this,’ he said. ‘I’m on your side.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Stay away from them, see what happens.’
There was, suspended in the space between them, an or that lingered silently at the end of Wilkinson’s sentence. Or, if not, you could, something like that. Stahl knew it was there, felt the bare ghost of what it might demand from him, and thought Oh no you don’t. A Hollywood phrase he’d heard from Buzzy Mehlman suddenly came to him: What is this meeting about? Now Stahl thought he knew. ‘You’re not asking me to spy on these people, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Then what are you asking?’
Wilkinson leaned forward, clasped a pair of big, meaty hands together and rested them on his desk. ‘That you be careful, that you don’t let them use you if you can keep them from doing it. There’s no point in your finding out what’s going on and who is involved, the French know that already and so do we. Anyhow, you’re not a spy, that takes nerves of steel, and soon enough becomes a full-time job. And I’m no spymaster. America has military attaches who do that and we don’t have an overseas spy service.’
Stahl nodded that he understood, though he didn’t believe Wilkinson was being fully honest.
‘On the other hand,’ Wilkinson said, then let the phrase hang there for a time. ‘On the other hand, the people in the White House need to know as much as they can about what’s going on over here, and that’s one of the jobs an embassy, any embassy anywhere, has to do. So, if, in your time over here you, ah, stumble on something, something important, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you let me know about it. That isn’t the official duty of an American in a foreign country but we’re all in this together, and if you feel like an American it’s not the worst thing to act like one.’ Wilkinson took a moment to let that sink in, then said, ‘Okay, the hell with all that stuff, tell me about the movie you’re making.’
