Page 4 - Tales the Maggid Never Told Me

Alternate Hollywood

Cochran hooked his thumbs in his wide cowhide belt, looking
suddenly like the peanut farmer he had been before coming to
Hollywood as a young man on the make. “Bernie,” he said, in a
kindly voice, “I know your real name. I know you’re not Jewish.”
An expression of pure terror gripped the handsome film star’s
vaguely Levantine features. “No! You couldn’t—I mean, that’s
ridiculous. I am a Goldberg, my father is a Goldberg, and his father,
may he rest in peace, was a Goldberg, too.”
The director smiled sadly. “That’s ‘olav hashalom,’ Bernie; not ‘rest
in peace.’ This is what I’m trying to tell you. For the kind of movie
we are making here, you’ve got to be more convincing. I won’t let
you get by with a goyish performance. My own reputation is at
stake.”
“Okay, okay. Whatever you say, B. J. Just don’t tell anyone. Those
tabloids would tear me to shreds.”
Cochran clapped him on the shoulder, raising talcum dust
from Goldberg’s costume, an ill-fitting suit jacket of thin shiny black
fabric. “Don’t worry, Bernie. Your secret is safe with me. I just want
you to spend an hour or two each evening with an old friend of mine.
She’s very discreet, gives lessons in Yiddishkeit at her home or yours.
We can shoot around some of the tougher scenes until you get up to
speed. Is it a deal?”
“Oh, sure,” said Bernie, shrugging and rolling his eyes
heavenward. “Such a deal.”

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