We arrived in New York, at the land of the Brill Building and the RKO Jefferson and Max Rich, and the memories that flooded in seemed to belong to another world, another time.
Ben Roberts was at the airport to greet me with a big hug. On the way to the hotel, Ben brought me up-to-date on his activities.
“I’m stationed at Fort Dix,” he said, “writing war training films. You can’t believe what they’re like. In one film we spend ten minutes showing recruits how to raise the hood of a car. It’s like writing for five-year-olds. How long are you going to be in New York?”
I shook my head. “It could be an hour, it could be a week. I think it’s going to be closer to an hour.” I explained my situation to him. “I’m waiting for a call to report back to the Air Corps, and it could come at any minute.”
We reached the hotel where I had reservations, and I went to the desk. “I’m expecting a very important long-distance phone call,” I told the clerk. “Very important. Please make sure I get it immediately.”
Ben and I made a date for dinner the following night.
The next morning, I telephoned my agent, Louis Schur, in California. I told him that I was in New York and had free time until the secondary flying school opened up.
“Why don’t you go to the office,” he suggested, “and see my partner, Jules Zeigler? He might have something for you to do while you’re here.”
Jules Zeigler, head of the New York office, turned out to be a swarthy man in his forties, with a quick, nervous energy.
“Louie told me you’d be coming,” he said. “Are you looking for a project to do?”
“Well, I—”
“I have something interesting. Have you ever heard of Jan Kiepura?”
“No. Is that some holiday?”
“Jan Kiepura is a big opera star in Europe. So is his wife, Marta Eggerth. They’ve made a lot of movies over there. They want to do a show on Broadway, The Merry Widow.”
The Merry Widow, a famous operetta by Franz Lehár, was the story of a prince from a small kingdom who courts a wealthy widow to keep her money in his country. It was always playing somewhere around the world.
“They want someone to update the book. Are you interested in meeting them?”
What was the point? I was not going to be in New York long enough to write a letter, let alone a Broadway show.
“I don’t think that I can—”
“Well, at least go meet with them.”
I met Jan Kiepura and Marta Eggerth in their suite at the Astor Hotel. When Kiepura opened the door for me, he looked at my uniform and said, puzzled, “Are you the writer?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
Jan was a powerfully built man in his forties, with a heavy Hungarian accent. Marta was slim and attractive, with wavy shoulder-length hair, and a welcoming smile.
“Sit down,” Kiepura said.
I sat.
“We want to do The Merry Widow, but we want it to be modernized. Jules says you’re a good writer. What have you written?”
“Fly-By-Night, South of Panama . . .” I named some of the B pictures that Ben and I had done.
They looked at each other blankly. Jan Kiepura said, “We will let you know.”
That’s that. It’s over. And it’s just as well.
Thirty minutes later, I was back in Jules Zeigler’s office.
“They just called,” Zeigler said. “They want you to write the show.”
The black cloud descended over me. There was no way I could do it. Broadway was the Mecca every writer aspired to. What did I know about writing a Broadway show? Absolutely nothing. I would make a fool of myself and destroy the production. Anyway, I expected to receive the phone call to report back to the Air Corps at any second.
Jules Zeigler was watching me. “Are you all right?”
I did not have the courage to tell him I was not going to do the show. “Sure.”
“They want you to start right away.”
“Right.”
I went back to my hotel room. I would have to tell them that there was no way I could do it. But as I thought about it, I realized that there was a way. Ben Roberts. Ben could write the show with me. And when I got called back to the Air Corps in the middle of the project, Ben could finish it.
I called him at Fort Dix.
“What’s new?” he said.
“I’ll tell you what’s new. You and I are going to write a new book for The Merry Widow.”
There was a pause. “I didn’t know you drank.”
“I’m serious. I’ve talked to the stars of the show. They want us.”
He was speechless.
The following day, I went to the theater where The Merry Widow was going to open. The show was being produced by the New Opera Company, headed by Yolanda Mero-Irion, a short, buxom, middle-aged woman with a high, shrill voice.
It was a first-class production. The choreography was being done by the legendary George Balanchine, who was one of the century’s foremost choreographers. Balanchine was of medium height with the well-developed body of a dancer. He had a friendly smile and a faint Russian accent.
The director was the brilliant Felix Brentano, and the conductor was Robert Stolz, who was a wonderful composer in his own right. The prima ballerina was Milada Mladova, a stunning young European dancer.
I had a meeting with Balanchine, Stolz, and Brentano, and we discussed the libretto.
“It must be as modern as possible,” the director said, “but we must not lose its period flavor.”
“Entertaining and amusing,” Balanchine said.