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agreed. It was a delicate job getting him to talk
about the past but, like many men whom life has
defeated, discussing it now and then is a sort of
therapy. Because I knew so many of the facts he
was spared the humiliation of being overly ashamed.

“It’s all so long ago,” he began, “but I remember
it as though it were yesterday. I can see every detail,
every small detail. Sometimes I wake up screaming.
It’s all so real.”

].B. was in his early forties when his glamorous,
exciting life turned into a nightmare. He had become
a top director only a few years earlier after serving
a long apprenticeship in the theatre and later in
Hollywood, as a writer. Chance, another director’s
illness, gave him the opportunity he wanted, to direct
his own script. The film was a smash and ].B. went
on to other triumphs, proving he was more than a
one-shot.

His personal life was supremely happy. He had
married young to an actress who long since had
retired in order to raise his attractive brood of three
children. They were in their teens, old enough to
understand everything, when the bombshelldropped.

].B. was assigned a picture in Italy. It was to
begin in September, just at the start of school. Alice,
his wife, wanted to go with him but could not be