It was clear from the first moment, Minot’s head nodding with respect, that Marshall had come as a friendly witness, there to add a glow and demonstrate that he was as American as everyone assumed him to be. There were soft questions and patriotic answers, more nods from the committee, Dick’s very presence, his concern, somehow affirming their own. Bunny watched carefully, head on his pyramid fingers. Marshall was Continental’s most valuable name, a marquee favor to Minot. But why call him? Ben looked at his tanned, smooth face. An arm dangling from a chaise. Minot, he saw, was ignoring the Continental row. There were complicit glances at the rest of the audience, direct appeals to the cameras, but he never met Bunny’s eyes, acknowledged the gift. Marshall was his.
“Now you yourself didn’t serve in the military?” Minot said.
“No, I was 4-F. Perforated eardrum.”
Bunny sat up but didn’t say anything, maybe a question not in the script.
“But of course you served your country in other ways.”
“I did what I could, yes. During the bond drive, we raised—”
“Well, I meant more just by doing what you do. Your pictures. I can tell you, when I was in the Pacific, there were times the boys thought you were winning the war single-handed.”
Everyone laughed and Marshall tilted his head modestly.
“I had a little help. About four million guys, in fact. They’re the ones who won it.”
“Christ,” Ben said under his breath.
“Don’t snipe,” Bunny said.
“But I think we can all agree,” Minot said, “morale’s important, too. As someone who did see active service, I can tell you those pictures meant a lot to us. Now I wonder if I can ask you about one of them. In 1943, you were in Convoy to Murmansk. You remember that?”
“Sure. I was in the Navy in that one.”
“Escorting a convoy of freighters, wasn’t it?”
Dick nodded. “Dodging U-boats.”
“Dodging U-boats. Now of course they were all over the Atlantic. And the book the movie was based on—were you aware of this?—was English, about convoys heading for England. Convoy it was called.”
“That was the original title of the picture, too. The first script, I mean.”
“Oh, the original. And were you going to England in the script?”
“Yes.”
“Then all the sudden, Murmansk. Now why is that, do you think?”
“I don’t know. That would have been up to the writer. The director. I just say the lines.”
“The director, the writer—same fella on this picture, is that right? On Convoy to— Murmansk,” Minot said, emphasizing the last word.
“Right. Milton Schaeffer.”
“You ever ask him why he changed it?”
“Just in a kidding way. Made things harder to pronounce, the places.”
“In a kidding way. And what did he say?”
“Well, at the time we were trying to show how all the Allies were in it together. He said this was a way of bringing Russia in.”
“Including a new Russian character.” He looked down at his notes. “Andrei Malinkov. Soviet Naval attaché. Dick Marshall couldn’t get through the Baltic himself, is that it?”
Dick smiled. “The idea was, we were working together. He knew the mine fields.”
“Americans and Russians side by side. Just like they were any folks. Let me read you something.” He picked up a paper. “‘We’re not just carrying food. Equipment. We’re carrying hope. They’re taking a terrible beating. We have to help. How can we eat if they’re going hungry?’ Recognize that?”
“I said it. In the picture.”
“It’s in the book, too. Of course then you’re saying it about London. Now it’s—what? Leningrad? You think it’s the same thing? London, Leningrad? Is that what Mr. Schaeffer said?”
Dick gave a side glance to his lawyer, who nodded, a cue.
“He said the suffering there was even worse, in Russia, but nobody was doing pictures about it. This would help draw attention. That we needed to help the Russians.”
“Help the Russians,” Minot repeated. “Well, that we certainly did. The ships in Convoy—excuse me, Convoy to Murmansk—were carrying Lend-Lease. Millions and millions to help those people Mr. Schaeffer said were suffering so much. Know how much of it they’ve paid back? Not one cent. Not one kopek.” He looked up. “Did you ever suspect at the time that Mr. Schaeffer might be a Communist?”
“No, sir,” Marshall said, appalled.
“No, you don’t find that word in the script, not once. Just those friendly Russians. But they must have been, mustn’t they? Why not call them Communists?”