Did you know that, in the Spring of 1940, the once famous author F. Scott Fitzgerald was recruited by an agent of the French Resistance to assassinate the premier of Vichy France? He had hijacked the âJazz Ageâ and made it his own in the Roaring 20s, but now a struggling, impecunious alcoholic, his only real comforts are multiple Coca-Colas and the elusive embrace of his paramour, gossip columnist Sheilah Graham. Hemingway has become the real ticket, making the big money, but when our narrator Henri Duval, a double agent for the Vichy government and the French Resistance, surfaces in Hollywood at the legendary Garden of Allah hotel on Sunset Boulevard, he hatches a harebrained scheme that might just change the entire course of history and restore Fitzgerald to his rightful position on the top of the literary heap. As we peruse Duvalâs secret correspondence to his colleague in Washington D.C., we eavesdrop on wild nights with the Marx Brothers, intrigues engineered by dangerous Kewpie dolls, passionate amours with Marion Davies, and run-ins with William Randolph Hearst. The action culminates in a mission to Nazi-occupied Paris and an appointment with destiny and the premier of Vichy France, Marshal Phillipe Petain.
Did you know that, in the Spring of 1940, the once famous author F. Scott Fitzgerald was recruited by an agent of the French Resistance to assassinate the premier of Vichy France? He had hijacked the âJazz Ageâ and made it his own in the Roaring 20s, but now a struggling, impecunious alcoholic, his only real comforts are multiple Coca-Colas and the elusive embrace of his paramour, gossip columnist Sheilah Graham. Hemingway has become the real ticket, making the big money, but when our narrator Henri Duval, a double agent for the Vichy government and the French Resistance, surfaces in Hollywood at the legendary Garden of Allah hotel on Sunset Boulevard, he hatches a harebrained scheme that might just change the entire course of history and restore Fitzgerald to his rightful position on the top of the literary heap. As we peruse Duvalâs secret correspondence to his colleague in Washington D.C., we eavesdrop on wild nights with the Marx Brothers, intrigues engineered by dangerous Kewpie dolls, passionate amours with Marion Davies, and run-ins with William Randolph Hearst. The action culminates in a mission to Nazi-occupied Paris and an appointment with destiny and the premier of Vichy France, Marshal Phillipe Petain.
Foreword
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Whether the following pages be fact or fiction, there can be no doubt that they will intrigue any inquisitive, well-informed reader. That they exist at all is a minor miracle.
Five years ago, on a Sunday afternoon in the Spring of 1978, Harvey Ratchman, a retired electrical engineer, attended the Washington, DC garage sale of Mrs. Beth McDonald, a kindly widow in her late seventies, whose grown children had come from out of town to assist her in cleaning out her apartment house before its sale became complete by the close of the escrow period. Mrs. McDonald was planning to move in with her daughter, after having resided on the premises as owner-manager for over forty-five years. While browsing among the garage sale items, Mr. Ratchman came across a very heavy trunk of papers. It was in good condition andâas it wasnât taggedâhe inquired about the price. Negotiations ensued between Mr. Ratchman and Mrs. McDonaldâs daughter, and a nominal amount was agreed upon.
As Mr. Ratchman emptied the trunkâs contents in a large trash box, Mrs. McDonald approached and spoke at great length to Mr. Ratchman of the trunkâs previous owner. His name was Hyman Skolski. Mr. Skolski, according to Mrs. McDonald, had been a member of the French Resistance. He resided with Mrs. McDonald in a rear upstairs bachelor apartment from June 15, 1940 until February, 1942. He had asked Mrs. McDonald to keep his locked trunk in storage until he sent for it. He never did.
At this point, Mr. Ratchman perused the papers he was emptying into the trash. He thought they were handwritten in a foreign languageâperhaps Polish, because of Mr. Skolskiâs surname. Mrs. McDonald knew nothing about the papers, as she had never seen them. Her son had just opened the trunk that morning, snipping off the key lock with a pair of wire cutters. Mr. Ratchman was curious. It occurred to him that the papers might contain information of historic interest.
Determined to find out, Mr. Ratchman placed Mr. Skolskiâs papers back into the trunk. He took the trunk home. During the next week, Mr. Ratchman was painstakingly thorough in his research, but he could not find any language which approximated the language of Mr. Skolskiâs papers. That was when he realized the writing was in code.
Working systematically, Mr. Ratchman approached the code as if he were looking for crossed or faulty wiring in a piece of tricky electrical circuitry. Five months later, he had broken the code, thus rendering it into French, a foreign language he neither spoke nor understood. He acquired the services of Daphne Ellis, a retired foreign language instructor, and the two of them labored diligently over the next six months, translating the documents from French into English. Working from Mr. Ratchmanâs code, the documents have been re-translated by Raymond Kaufman of Columbia University, for this edition, resulting in a somewhat more elegant refinement of expression.
We owe much to Mr. Ratchmanâs dedication and tenacityâwithout his efforts, this volume of elusive operative Henri Duvalâs fascinating historical correspondence to Hyman Skolski would not be available to readers. The information contained herein undoubtedly sheds new light on both literary and world history. Many will say the documents are a hoax. But having been consulted in the preparation of this book in an editorial fact-checking capacity, I could not, in good conscience, recommend its publication if I thought it a fraud. For even though we have had difficulty in confirming Henri Duvalâs activities in LâEsprit Libre, his Resistance group, Duvalâs role as one of the founders of the organization has been authenticated. And we are fairly certain that he lived in Hollywood during the period of this correspondence (his name is listed in the employment records of Paramount Studios[1]). Although F. Scott Fitzgerald makes no express reference in any of his writings to any clandestine liaison with Duval, the French Resistance, or any political faction, his political sentiments are strongly expressed in his communications with family and friends in the last year of his life.
Still, we cannot confirm the surreptitious activities alleged in Duvalâs letters. In addition, from further inquiry, we know of no extant person of Fitzgeraldâs acquaintance who ever met Duval or saw Duval and Fitzgerald together. However, we have scrutinized the dates, times, people, and events portrayed in these documents, and, though we do not possess unequivocal proof of their veracity, we cannot refute their hypothetical existence in fact by citing incontrovertible evidence of things it has been documented that Mr. Fitzgerald did in their place.
In short, the ultimate judgment belongs to the discerning reader and future historians.
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Bertrand B. Sloan
Princeton University
November 1983
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Hollywood, California
June 25, 1940
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Dear Hyman,
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It feels like a lifetime since Iâve had a decent meal with drinkable wine. Here, they look at you like youâre crazy if you order anything aside from a sickening-sweet milkshake, watery beer, or terrible whisky. Iâve given up trying to get wine, even in the better restaurants. Itâs too much of a chore. Even the French varieties have already turned.
Americans. If we didnât need them so desperately, you couldnât pay me to set foot here. I agree with you that they are an uncivilized, barbarous race. As youâve said, there is no sense of balance in them (with my architectural training, I can also see this in their buildingsâmore on that later). They do not know how to savor pleasure or sustain enjoyment. They are forever guilt-ridden and Puritanical. My close study of the American writer-type personified by F. Scott Fitzgerald indicates that, when it comes to drinking, they are either entirely against it, or they indulge to such destructive excess that it kills them even as they live. They are worse than the Frenchâif you can believe it.
Enough philosophizing. My finances are holding up well. Iâve been living in the lap of luxury, as the Americans say. My residence is a celebrity hotel that goes by the exotic name of the Garden of Allah. It is quite beautiful in a very second-class sort of wayâa collection of large, Spanish-style stucco bungalows clustered about a large pool that is supposedly shaped like the Black Sea because its original owner, a Russian silent-screen actress named Alla Nazimova, wanted something to remind her of home.
The Garden of Allah is typical of this place called Hollywood. Everywhere, the buildings are stage setsâfrom log cabins to chateaus. The average people are âfansâ (short for fanatic, in case you didnât know), meaning theyâre madly happiest when theyâre trying to live out their fantasies of their favorite stars. Their fashion and hairstyles follow the latest movies. Crazy, isnât it?
As to the stars themselves, many stay at this hotel when theyâre visiting from New York on assignments with the film studios. Or they live here permanently if they donât want the responsibility of keeping up a home or apartment. The Garden of Allah is a good place for them to be seen, too. Thatâs what these people are always doingâkeeping up their images, Â and making show business contacts to advance their careers. They have to. The Garden of Allah is expensiveâmy room is $100 per week. Many of them have been involved in scores of pictures, but they must spend every cent they make. Which is why they move in and out daily. It costs a great deal to live as if you are always putting on a show.
But this is the perfect place for me. In addition to the occasional stars, many other successful show businesspeopleâparticularly writersâlive here. I am just a block away from Mr. Fitzgeraldâs apartment.
Who would guess that the rest of the world is in the middle of a war? Itâs all over the papers, but here, you donât hear people talking about it around the pool or on the street. Of course, we go everywhere by car, mostly, so there isnât much time for conversation or sustained thought. And there arenât any real cafes, where you can run into friends and sit and talk without a waitress hovering over you, check in hand, as other people stare, tapping their toes and waiting for your seat.
What a godforsaken place. But at least itâs generally cheerful (the weather is wonderful!) and the Americans are strong. They would never lack for courageânor would they ever let themselves lapse into a state of unpreparedness. Because they do not seem to have learned how to relax or enjoy their existence, they are vigilant, watchful, and resourceful in preparing for some nearly accessible, just-out-of-reach future in which happiness, love, prosperity, and passion will freely reign in startling, endless abundance. They are a self-sufficient peopleâthat much I can say for them. They may have wrapped themselves in a waking dream-cloudâas evidenced by their hysteria for the cinemaâbut dreaming too much is better than not dreaming at all. Wouldnât you agree? When was the last time our average Frenchman dreamed that he was anything but an ass-wipe for a German rear?
Of course, I have seen all the papers. The headlines say the war has ended for us and that we are in mourning for our âdead lost cause.â Donât you love it? Doesnât it make you laugh that the great Marshal Philippe PĂ©tain says that we are âcertain to show greater grandeur in avowing our defeat than in opposing vain and illusory projectsâ? Gandhi, I must quote: âWhat is going on before our eyes is a demonstration of the futility of violence and also of Hitlerism. I think French statesmen have shown real courage in bowing to the inevitable and refusing to be party to mutual slaughter.â
Piss on them both! France is not dead if the two of usâat leastâare in health and sound of mind.
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Your friend,
Henri
Hollywood
 June 26, 1940
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Dear Hyman,
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Iâm so damned bored and anxious here, waiting for the proper moment to contrive my introduction to Mr. Fitzgerald. I hardly know what to do with myself when Iâm not writing you letters. I hope you donât mind. Our correspondence helps me to clarify my thinking. I feel confident our security is good. I will use the code always. If there are any problems that I should know about, you know the other way to reach me.
I will be the first to admit the irony of our respective positions. You are the writer, yet I have ended up in Hollywood doing my best to impersonate one. Perhaps itâs better this way. Most of the other writers here are impostors, too, except they donât know it. They tell me that they sit around in teams of two or three on couches, telling each other stories and trying to make up catchy dialogue that they throw back and forth to their shared secretary. She records it on a machine, types up what sounds best to her, and then everybody goes home.
Is this writing? Is this the search for Flaubertâs le mot juste? Some of them work together in their hotel rooms. There are two guys next door to me. Yesterday, after I wrote to you, I listened to them through the wall. They yelled so much and used so much slang, I couldnât make sense of the story they were working on. It had something to do with what they call a âWestern,â with cowboys and Indians and such. I heard a young lady screaming as a man shouted that he wanted to lasso a cow. Iâve since discovered that a lasso is a rope cowboys use to catch cattle or horses.
Then gunshots went off.
I did what any ordinary man would do in such a situation. I ran next door. But I discovered a party. There were almost twenty people there! Three men wore Western clothes, Stetson hats, bandanas around their necks, boots with spurs, and leather leggings over their trousers. Two of them were twirling oldÂ-fashioned six-shooters, firing them with blank charges and laughing. One of these cowboys had a thick greasepaint moustache, and heâd used the same stuff to darken his eyebrows. The one without the six-shooters wore a curly blond wig. He was the one with the lasso, encircling a young lady with platinum blond hair. It was extremely loud and hectic, but the theme of this gathering seemed to have to do with these sillyÂ-looking men and their costumes. They solicited the small crowdâs opinion of their appearance and were anxious whether they looked funny.
They call themselves the Marx Brothers, I found outâGroucho, Harpo, and Chicoâand they are very popular in American comedy cinema. I canât make sense of them, but theyâre very nice fellows. They enjoyed themselves immensely making fun of my heavy French accent. Groucho enjoyed it the most. He thought it very heroic of me to rush in to save the maiden in distress, and he introduced me to the platinum-Âhaired girl who had been screaming and told her to find out what is so great about French lovers. He kept rushing around the room, wagging his cigar. Then heâd come back to the girl and myself and ask us nonsense questions about my amorous aptitude.
âHave you always been a great lover?â he said. Before I could answer, he interjected, âIâve always loved her, too, but it led to divorce.â He turned back to the girl. âI loved her, and he loved her. They all loved her. But why did she love him?â
It didnât make much sense, but it was very funny at the time, though it flustered the girl. Itâs the only time I can remember enjoying being the butt of someone elseâs joke. Iâm starting to feel a special kinship with these Americansâfor soon, if all goes according to plan, they will give their flesh and blood to our cause. And thereâs something else, I suppose. Have I said these people have the innocence of puppies? Theyâre so fresh and sprightlyâeven the adults are like children or idiots. They smile when they walk down the street. Itâs a little frightening.
But back to Mr. Groucho Marx. I left the impromptu affair a few hours later, and had just gotten into bed when someone knocked on my door. It was the young lady from the party. She giggled and said Groucho had sent her for research into foreign affairs. She liked to giggle. I didnât go to bed with her, though she was most ravishing. There have already been numerous opportunities for such dalliances, but I am trying to cultivate an image, am I not?
The writers, as I have observed, are a merry but puritanical lot. Most of them seem to be married. Few would entertain the notion of having more than one mistress at a time. Especially Mr. Fitzgerald. It is important that I begin my association with the man from a position of respect, so that the two of us have things in common. Therefore, I am wearing a wedding band. I have also bought the same model car as hisâa 1934 Ford coupeâfor $140. Americans enjoy talking about their cars. Mr. Fitzgerald is sure to find it a fascinating coincidence, and one that should prove a fruitful topic of conversation.
After sending Mr. Marxâs lady friend away, I was asleep finally by around 1 a.m., when I was awakened by another knock. It was another woman this timeâa tall brunette. âGroucho sent me,â she said. I told her I was in bed, and she offered to join me. When I asked her why, she looked surprised and said that she thought I was another writer on the new picture. I told her I didnât know a thing about the new picture, and she left.
Six other women knocked at my door over the next few hours. They were of every descriptionâfrom twenty to eighty years of age. I was no longer amused. When I opened my door for what Iâd decided was the last time, it was Mr. Groucho Marx. Except for his greasepaint, bandana, Stetson hat, and boots with spurs, he was nude! He had a sixÂ-shooter in each hand. He asked me if I was married. I lied, answering in the affirmative. He shot off both guns, said, âThat explains it,â and walked away.
Ten minutes later, someone knocked again. It was a policeman in a blue uniform.
âYouâre under arrested,â he told me.
I grinned at his seeming malapropism. âFor what?â I asked.
âDevelopment,â he said, breaking character with a chuckle. âGroucho says no Frenchman in his right mind could ever be so much in love ÂÂ. . . with his wife, that is.â
He said Groucho was sorry for having disturbed me, and then laughed and walked away.
I should have plucked one of those succulent plums, perhaps. I donât want these people to stop thinking Iâm French.
Â
Your friend,
Henri
[1] Accounts Payable, Paramount Studios, August-October, 1940; courtesy of Paramount Studios Archives.
How much do you enjoy Historical Fiction? Emphasis on Fiction. How do you like this to be served?
*Dual time-lines
*Action/Adventure
*Romance
*Chronological facts
*Epistolary novel
We love all of the above, but there is just something about an epistolary historical novel that makes it so much more "real". I guess it's because of the highly personal and one-sided tone that is easily set with epistolary novels.
It's very hard to believe that F.Scott Fitzgerald: American Spy is a work of fiction. The author did a magnificent job to create a work of fiction that reads like a historical document that somehow got leaked.
Imagine you browse a garage sale and buy a heavy trunk of papers, just for the fun of it. This was 1978 and Google wasn't your best friend yet. So yes, it's more than likely that you will buy a trunk of papers and go through them for nothing but pure enjoyment. Please take note of my choice of wording here - go through the papers, not read through them. Imagine you are browsing through this trunk of papers, obviously quite old already, and realize that it's letters. All written in code.
My! What a marvelous discovery. That is exactly what happened to Mr. Ratchman and aren't we glad he shared his findings with us! Upon digging a bit deeper and asking the former landlady of the owner of the trunk of letters a few questions, he soon discovered that the trunk belonged to a member of the French Resistance. One Hyman Skolski.
After months of translations, code-breaking and careful historical research, what followed is a fascinating historical account of the letters that Henry Duval wrote to Hyman Skolski. If Mr. Skolski really was a member of the L'Esprit Libre Resistance group, we cannot know for sure, but Mr. Duval was one of the founders.
It doesn't take long for the reader to get pulled into a world of espionage, political opinions and factions woven in with the lives of show people, business people and writers of 1940's Hollywood. Mr. Duval was rather fascinated by the works of F.Scott Fitzgerald and his opinions on politics and his world views. Especially later in his life. As one of the early readers of this novel, I want to believe that there is more fact than fiction in this account. That is how well the author handled this "treasure trunk."
If you enjoy your historical fiction served as a epistolary work, F. Scott Fitzgerald is a book I will invite you to take a closer look at for sure!Â