He stopped, embarrassed, then took out a cigarette.

“Sorry. What am I doing now, telling war stories?” He inhaled, then blew smoke up toward the round observation roof, in this light oddly like the glass bubble of the Lancaster. “The thing was, I used to live there. Berlin. So it was the enemy, but also someplace you knew. It’s a funny feeling, bombing someplace you know. You think what it must be like on the ground.”

Lasner stared at him for a minute, saying nothing. “And thenwhat? You’re showing Zanuck around Europe. In uniform. He had it made, you know that? A tailor.” Almost a wink, a joke between them. “And for that they needed-what’s it again? — an MOS. Because your father was in pictures. Where, Germany?”

“Uh huh,” Ben said casually, sorry now that he had brought it up. “He came here for a while. Years ago. I was born here, in fact. California. But he went back.”

“Collier,” Lasner said, thumbing a mental file.

“Kohler then. Otto Kohler. He was a director.” The old hesitancy, as if the name, once his own, would somehow brand him.

“Otto? My god, why didn’t you say so? Wait a minute. I thought his kid was already over here-at Republic or some place. We were going to do something with him once, but then it didn’t work out. I forget why.” He stopped, confused. “Same name, though, as Otto. Kohler.”

“My brother,” Ben said, about to say more, and then the moment was gone. Why not tell him? But why would Lasner care? Something still private, and somehow not real. “He changed it back. Kids pick sides in a divorce. He was closer to my father.” Moving away from it. “You knew him? Otto?”

“Of course I knew him. He worked for me. You didn’t know that?” He glanced at Ben, a slight suspicion. “We made Two Husbands. You must have seen that.”