Slings & Arrows

Adolf Hitler was the subject of some nasty gossip last week. Burbled the wife of Nazi Secretary of State Otto Meissner (now awaiting trial at Dachau): the Fuhrer had a son, Helmuth, by Frau Goebbels, and "I am the only survivor who knows it." It all began, she confided to newshawks, in the summer of 1934. "At that time Frau Goebbels was on bad terms with her husband.. . . Hitler visited her so regularly in her apartment that their relations were obvious. . . . They seemed lost in each other's company, especially when love songs were played. Later, their relations became less intimate. . . ." The child, Frau Meissner said, was born in 1935, grew up as Goebbels' son, died in the Goebbels family suicide. But when it came to proof, all the fluttery Frau could point to was the boy's picture, which vaguely resembles Hitler, vaguely resembles Goebbels.

Franklin Roosevelt suffered unusual commemoration. The new 50th Anniversary Who's Who, hastening to pay its respects, had fallen on its typographical face. Its F.D.R. entry: "Died April 12, 1945; interned at Hyde Park, N.Y."

Thomas E. Dewey ran into an embarrassing shortage problem last week. A year ago, the sympathetic Tacoma (Wash.) Athletic Commission found the Governor a hard-to-get toilet seat for the Executive Mansion, sent it to him posthaste. But now the commissioners, building new quarters, were confronted with an identical shortage. Red-faced but resolute, they sent for their toilet seat.

Helpmeets

Frank & Nancy Sinatra dropped off Hollywood's Ideal Couple List with a thud. After a hot argument, Frankie walked out with a first-degree burn on. Clucked Sinatra's pressagent: "It was a case of Hollywood career plus a family tiff. I hope they will make up. . . ." But that night, Frankie went to Sonja Henie's party, danced with Lana Turner. Burbled Lolly Parsons: "[Lana has] known Frank for a long time, but. . . says: 'I am not in love with Frank and he is not in love with me. I have never in my life broken up a home.' " Then, said Louella, Lana wept. At week's end, Frankie was reported cooling off at California's Palm Springs.

Tilly Losch, febrific terpsichorean contortionist, the wife (on inactive status) of the Earl of Carnarvon, discussed her lives for a Manhattan society columnist. "My role of ballerina comes first. Second is my work as a choreographer. My acting comes third, my painting fourth. I rate my role as Lady Carnarvon fifth in importance simply because I can't think of anything interesting to put after painting."

Orson Welles & Rita Hayworth, after six months of separation, celebrated their conjugal reconjunction in one of those Hollywood domestic pictures: of Husband Orson inspecting Wife Rita's hair in mid-passage from red to blonde.

Bumps & Bruises

George Bernard Shaw, who, at 41, climbed off his soapbox to become socialist member of London's St. Pancras borough council, was prevented (by a fall) from receiving the council's belated recognition: freedom of the borough. He had tumbled from his swivel chair and bruised a leg. But he delivered an acceptance speech anyway (by radio transcription). Said Shaw: "When one is very old, as I am . . . your legs give in before your head does. Consequently you're always tumbling about. I tumble down about three times a week . . . and . . . it was perfectly plain that if I were to address you in person I should flop from time to time." In bed, he happily posed for photographers (see cut), assured the world: "This is not my deathbed. . . ."

Nikolai V. Novikov, owlish Soviet Ambassador to the U.S., arriving from Paris at LaGuardia Field, was involved in a border incident with New York City customs and immigration men. He was taken to the crowded Public Health Room for the routine quarantine and immigration lineup, was questioned, examined, and cross-examined as if he were "just a passenger." The procedure annoyed him. When he tried to phone the Soviet Consulate, an airline representative barred the way. Novikov drew his iron curtain about him and glared. A few minutes later, a customs inspector requested him to sign a baggage declaration. The diplomat, now fuming, refused, started off to call the State Department. The customs officials reconsidered, allowed him to stalk off without signing. The Soviet Embassy made formal protest; the State Department began investigating.

Joe Louis, on the steps of New York's City Hall, balled a brawny fist in the cause of the American Social Hygiene Association's October antivenereal drive for $300,000, bumped off the Bum of the Month (VD in effigy).

Queen Elizabeth took the helm of the SS. Queen Elizabeth on its first postwar run down the Clyde. Said Her Majesty: "It felt lovely--just lovely." Then, while her daughters inspected the engine room, the Queen had a spot of tea.

Princess Elizabeth, achasing the wild deer and following the roe in the glens around Musselburgh, Scotland, bagged a twelve-point stag.

Emir Mohamed Al-Raschid II, Detroit-born, self-styled heir to the Turkish throne and direct descendant of the Prophet, took a right royal beating in a Hollywood divorce court. His commoner wife, a onetime Iowa telephone operator (Marcella Whiting), now the Princess Pareshah, won both her divorce, ("He never earned a cent . . . made me serve him breakfast in bed") and the right to raise their 17-month-old daughter as a Methodist. Mohamed II was horrified, claimed that some 200,000,000 Moslems would be, too. "The Princess," he declared, "belongs to all Islam." His wife's attorneys thought otherwise. Had he not dreamed up his claim to the Turkish throne while working as a pants presser in London? Cried the Emir: "It's a lie!" Was he really a subject of Turkey? Certainly not. "Turkey is a subject of me."

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