The Kindness of Strangers

by Salka Viertel

  She moved next to me and took my hand. “I’m Stas’s cousin Erna. He must have told you about me.”

  Yes, Stas had often spoken of his Viennese uncle and aunt and their three daughters. Erna, the eldest, a medical student, was his favorite. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, she resembled Stas, though her eyes seemed lighter in color. She had recognized me from a photo Stas had at his bedside. The black dress, and my presence on the streetcar coming from the direction of the cemetery had confirmed my identity.

  Erna’s friendship and warmth put an end to my disconsolate brooding. She also insisted that I “return to the living” and start to study. As she knew from Stas that I wanted to be an actress, she arranged an audition for me with Alexander Roempler, the distinguished actor-director of the Burgtheater.

  Roempler’s villa was in a very exclusive district of Vienna. A butler admitted us—again I went with Mama—and a white-aproned maid led the way to a large study, where a short, stout man with an imposing Roman head greeted us. After some sympathetic questions about my age and my being in mourning, Roempler said that he would like to hear the Eboli monologue from Schiller’s Don Carlos. It was very dramatic and, thank heaven, not too long. When I had finished he remained silent for a moment, then said: “Come closer—let me take a good look at you.”

  Pulling me down on a low taboret next to him, he lifted my chin. “Yes, you have a rare dramatic temperament, but. . . . That accent!” Tears came into my eyes. “Don’t cry—are you really determined to work hard?” Then he would send me to an ogre of a teacher, a very severe lady whose speciality was correcting speech defects and foreign accents. “If you survive two months of her training, I’ll see you again and work with you.” He turned to Mama: “The girl is exceptionally gifted—exceptionally,” he repeated. I grabbed his hand and kissed it.

  My mother asked what the financial arrangement would be and he laughed. He was not a professional teacher, but he was interested in talented young people.

  * Polish parliament in Lwow.

  6

  THERE WAS NO SNOW that February, and it seemed like spring when I moved into the room Esther had found for me. It was rented by a “highly respectable family,” the Froelichs. They were a friendly old couple, looking more like identical twins than husband and wife. Both were short, plump, white-haired, with pink cheeks and bright blue eyes, and smiled apologetically as they explained that they only took a “paying guest” because two of their four daughters were married and they had an empty room. Their eldest and youngest lived at home. Camilla was the name of the youngest; she was pretty, very lively and studied the piano at the Academy. We became good friends.

  The apartment was on the fourth and top floor of an old house in a narrow street at the back of St. Peter’s Church, right off the Graben. Returning from the theater through the brightly lit Kaerntnerstrasse with its elegant shopwindows, noisy traffic and hurrying crowds, I would cross the Graben and plunge suddenly into the darkness of a deserted, cobbled gasse which had not changed in four hundred years. As in all Viennese houses, doors were locked at night. I had to ring the bell and wait until the Hausmeister emerged from his squalid basement lodging, shuffling and coughing, to take his Charon’s toll of ten Kreuzer and hand me a tiny candle. My weird shadow darkening the walls, I ran as fast as I could up the endless stone steps of the spiral staircase, praying that the candle would last to the fourth floor. When I finally reached my room it took all my will power not to telephone Esther Mandl and tell her that I wanted to change lodgings.

  Imperial Vienna exuded an intense erotic atmosphere. It was impossible for a young woman to walk alone without being followed. Alternating between the sentimental and the rudely obscene approach, men pursued one with undaunted persistence. On my way home from the theater I had to take the Kaerntnerstrasse, which at night was the domain of the prostitutes. Sometimes they chased me, sure that I was a novice intruding on their hunting grounds. In panic I would race down the street, hoping in vain for the appearance of a policeman. There were several other streets leading to the Graben but they were dark and deserted, and Camilla had warned me not to take them because the pimps used to wait there for the girls. Camilla was well informed and not afraid of the streetwalkers. She even knew some by name. “How is business tonight?” she would ask them in her brittle, high-pitched voice and look at them with impudent blue eyes. They laughed and called her “herziger Fratz.”* With me it was different, I was full-bosomed and red-haired and distracted the customers.

  Three times a week I went to my diction teacher, Miss P., an exceptionally ugly woman. The worst feature in her face was her mouth on which she insisted I concentrate all my attention, so that I would know how to “project” properly the a, e, i, o, u and all the Umlaute. I also dreaded her consonants; when her tongue clicked against her old, yellow, protruding teeth, she gathered bubbles of spit in the corners of her mouth, which was garlanded with long, stiff, gray bristles. She had a big, soft belly, which heaved up and down and she would press my hands to her sides so I could feel her “correct” breathing. I could not imagine anything more revolting. Still, my German diction was improving: the Slavic r’s softened, the lazy consonants became clear.

  In my room I walked up and down, learning by heart idiotic combinations of words, sentences devoid of any meaning, practicing for hours until one day I thought I was losing my mind. I phoned Roempler that I could not stand it any longer. There was a silence at the other end; then he said he would see me in the afternoon. I arrived trembling at his villa, but still had enough strength left for a violent outburst against Miss P. Roempler listened and laughed: “Congratulations! Miss P. is an excellent teacher! I never thought you’d lose your accent.” Of course Miss P. became less repulsive at once, especially after Roempler said that he would study a role with me. How about Mary Stuart? But he insisted that I continue my diction lessons.

  •

  Before going home my mother had introduced me to her former singing teacher, Fanny Muetter. I suppose Fanny was in her sixties at that time. Her round, very black eyes gave her wrinkled doll’s face a constantly startled expression; the small mouth with regular white teeth was still young and attractive, the black curls were firmly plastered to her forehead. The ample bosom and short, thin legs gave her the appearance of an overstuffed pigeon. Her pupils adored her and seemed never to leave her studio. I was invited to come as often as I felt like it, and sit around with the others. Listening to the lessons I learned a lot, as Fanny was a master not only of the bel canto but also of clear enunciation of the text. I was fascinated by her technique and her great musicianship.

  Two of her pupils, the sensitive, delicate Emmy Heim, an outstanding Lieder singer, and Ilka von Orsbach, who had a beautiful soprano voice which gave promise of a great operatic career, befriended me. Both were older than I, in their middle twenties, but they admitted me to the “inner circle.”

  •

  Several months went by and Roempler became very ill. He sat in his armchair wrapped in blankets, his eyelids drooping. I hardly had the heart to go on with my scenes, but he said that the lessons distracted him. Soon I received a note, apparently from a secretary, saying that I should not count on further coaching; Mr. Roempler’s condition had become very serious. Two weeks later he died.

  I think that it was upon the advice of some of Esther’s theater-addicted friends that my dramatic training was entrusted to the “bon vivant” of the Burgtheater, Mr. N. He was younger than Roempler and very handsome. The main advantage of my studying with him was that on his frequent guest performances in the Austrian summer resorts, he took me along as his leading lady. Neither he nor the producers paid me a salary, because I was his pupil. As a matter of fact, one of my provincial directors suggested that I should pay him for my appearance, but this was too much even for Mr. N. And so at the end of June and during most of July we played Suderman’s Heimat (I was Magda) and Ohnet’s Huettenbesitzer (Le Maitre des Forges) in Baden, St. Poelten, Pressburg, Ischl,
etc., where Mr. N. was acclaimed and admired in roles he did not have the chance to play at the Burgtheater.

  I cannot remember having ever suffered stage fright when I first stood before an audience. My attention was concentrated on my teacher with whom I had most of my scenes. The whole thing seemed more like a game of tennis and he was pleased when I returned the ball correctly. He also arranged my official debut as Medea at the Stadttheater in Pressburg. For this important event my mother came from Sambor, but I think she would have preferred to see me play a younger and gentler role. All she had to say was that my make-up was too dark, and that I was much too young and not at all like the famous Frau Bleibtreu. Esther was non-committal. But my friend Ilka von Orsbach was terribly moved, shedding buckets of tears and declaring that I was a genius.

  The Medea performance brought me an offer in Teplitz-Schoenau, a health resort and quite a large city in the Bohemian Sudetenland. The director, Mr. Frank, had signed Ilka as his leading soprano and wanted me for the classic and modern young “heroines” of his dramatic repertory. It was terribly tempting to join Ilka, and Teplitz was not too far from Dresden, Berlin and many other renowned and well-subsidized German theaters.

  Because I was a minor Papa was obliged to sign my contract. A painstakingly correct lawyer—the briefs he drew up were famous for their clarity and fairness—he was astounded by an actor’s agreement. “In a brothel, at least, they don’t sign contracts,” he burst out.

  Until 1919, German theatrical contracts were documents of sheer slavery. They contained no guarantee of employment, no provision for accidents or illness; tuberculosis or venereal disease justified immediate dismissal. Beginners had to present a list of classic parts, studied thoroughly, so that they could appear in them if a change in repertory demanded it. Actresses had to supply their own period costumes and also a “complete wardrobe in good condition” for contemporary plays. Of course, stars and prominent members of the Imperial and Royal theaters had special rights and privileges, but the provincial actors, and especially beginners, had to sign standard commitments. I succeeded in convincing my mother that these medieval clauses existed only on paper. She was also comforted by the hope that, if harshly treated, I would break my contract and this would put an end to my career. Nevertheless, she ordered lovely brocades, silks and velvets at Amalia Kanarienvogel’s shop and her talented dressmaker copied historical costumes from reproductions of well-known paintings. I am convinced that in her imagination Mama was wistfully transforming them into fashionable evening gowns and peignoirs, in case I would return home and get married after all.

  As usual, the whole family was spending the summer at Wychylowka. Grandmother and Aunt Bella had arrived, but Bella, in love with a young man, stayed only a few days. Rose had returned from Lwow, where she had not only been studying at the university but participating in semi-amateur theatricals. Like a cautious swimmer, she was sticking her toes into the water first to see how cold it was, while watching me plunge head-on into the deep. Edward had been in Basel, where Ferrucio Busoni was conducting a “master class” and accepted him as a pupil. In the autumn he was to continue his studies in Berlin. My mother gloomily mused about the time when the three of us would be gone. My father was aloof and irritable but Dusko, our youngest brother, got more than his usual share of adoration. He was ten years old now and there was some vague talk of sending him to a boarding school, as his various tutors and governesses had given up their efforts to break his resistance to education. He was wild, unruly, disobedient, but he played marvelous tennis, rode his two ponies standing upright, with one foot on the back of each galloping animal, and had the habit of vanishing for hours and remaining undetected, even in the limited surroundings of Wychylowka. Papa reprimanded him with incredible mildness when dirty, smelly, his copper-colored hair disheveled, he would show up for dinner. Dusko sneered at us “artists.” None of us could ever beat him at tennis and we did not play soccer. But though our parents considered soccer a game for rowdies and had a very limited understanding of sport in general, they were strangely captivated by the physical prowess of their youngest son.

  My mother and other charitable ladies had opened a free kitchen for the poor, and Rose and I helped to serve meals. There was also a new library started by the younger Jewish generation—the sons and daughters of merchants and craftsmen. Emancipated from their Orthodox upbringing they were in full intellectual revolt against their elders and attracted to Zionism and socialism.

  Otherwise, Sambor had not changed. There were new cavalry officers to ride with. Colonel Brenner von Flammenberg in his impeccable uniform and snow-white gloves still came to tea and the usual gossip flourished. Now that I was an actress the attitude of the officers and other male friends who used to visit our house had changed. The colonel departed from his “nice uncle” role and acquired a surprising penchant for touching my breasts and pinching my buttocks. I realized that this was the penalty I had to pay for having chosen a “disreputable” profession.

  However my mother had ceased to worry about me: Ilka wrote that her sister Mia had arrived from St. Petersburg with her husband Alja and their little daughter, and they would stay with us in Teplitz-Schonau. The thermal baths there were the very thing Alja needed for his rheumatism. It was not family life I yearned for but my parents were delighted, as was Grandmother, who knew Alja’s family. They were rich and almost as refined and distinguished as the Rafaelowicz—but not quite.

  * “Cute brat.”

  7

  I HAVE LIVED IN MANY PLACES and I am sure that even after all these years if I went back, I would recognize in most of them some landmark, street corner or building. But all I remember of Teplitz, or Teplice-Sanov as it is now called, are the hotels and Familien-Pensions, their shutters closed after the summer season, a fountain wrapped in a huge straw cape and dark tree trunks soaked in rain, their brown, decaying leaves covering the ground.

  We lived in a large, badly heated villa which, except for our lodgings, had closed for the winter. Ilka and I each had a room on the first floor. Mia, with husband and baby was right above us. They also had a maid. Alja, tall, heavy, with a beard cut exactly like Czar Nicolas’, was a dedicated Oblomov type. Stretched out on the sofa, melancholy and complaining all day long, he was waited on by his devoted wife. He was not really ailing, at least not seriously, but just sorry for himself. Mia was a miniature Ilka, prettier and more delicate, but lacking Ilka’s humor and vitality. She spent her days nervously stuffing tobacco, with a special little tool, into the thin long Russian cigarettes which they smoked incessantly, drinking their pale tea and discussing Alja’s rich relatives in St. Petersburg.

  Ilka was unhappy because she was separated from her Béla, a dazzlingly handsome Hungarian nobleman, young and poor, whom she loved madly and wanted to marry. Béla was slowly climbing the bureaucratic ladder in the Kaiser-Koeniglich* government service until he would reach the rung from which he could afford to plunge into matrimony. If it had not been for the necessity of making money, Ilka would have said good-bye to the opera and gone back to Vienna. It was Béla who wanted her to have a career, speculating that sooner or later she would land in the Hofoper.

  In Teplitz I lived under the impression that there was no town around me, no streets, no shops, no apartment houses, no markets, no churches, nothing but the tree-lined promenade and the café-restaurant where unshaven actors sprawled yawning and shivering, staring gloomily into their coffee cups. When at last I stood on the stage and the curtain went up, I was amazed to see that there really were people in the theater. The women in the boxes wore jewels and furs just as splendid as in Vienna. Teplitz was a rich town.

  My first role was Schiller’s Mary Stuart, put on for the Salondame,† the protégé of a wealthy industrialist, who insisted on playing Queen Elizabeth. In Schiller’s drama Mary and Elizabeth meet only once, in the third act. It is a famous scene and has been parodied by Bertolt Brecht as an exercise in alienation. Instead of the two Queens fighting for th
e throne he has two fishwives passionately fighting for their market stand.

  Having coldly acknowledged my presence, the Salondame announced that she did not see any reason for going over the scene, as we had only two rehearsals of the whole play. The director nodded at this suggestion. In the evening she surprised me by punctuating my impassioned speeches with contemptuous “poohs” and “ohs” and practically drove me into the wings. But somehow I managed to hold my own and received applause.

  Mr. Frank, the director, was known to express only negative criticism, and my colleagues warned me not to expect that I would be any exception. Upon leaving my dressing room I saw him on the stage talking to Klaus Moss, the opera conductor, and I tried to sneak out quickly, unnoticed. But Moss called to me: “Wait! Ilka asked me to fetch you. We are going out together.”

  Klaus Moss was tall and very thin, with a cheerful, boyish face and curly black hair, which was always disheveled. He was in his early thirties, had wasted too much time in provincial theaters and was getting panicky about his career. He spoke a broad Saxon dialect, which made the most serious things he said sound hilarious. Thousands of German jokes are told in this dialect, just as many as in Yiddish. I often wondered how it was possible for a man with a fine ear for music to speak like that and still to be so attractive.

  Director Frank stared at me gloomily. “You are from the Baltic, aren’t you?” he said. “In your last scene you made me think you were from Riga.” He made Riga sound as if it were the most disreputable place on earth. I did not dare to say where I was from, knowing that would be even more disastrous.

  Moss came to my rescue: “Nonsense! I was in Riga for two years, so I would have noticed it.” He began to imitate the Baltic accent, which, mixed with his original Saxon would have made me laugh if the director’s red-rimmed, alcoholic eyes had not been focused on me. Ignoring Moss’s clowning, he said: “Come to my office tomorrow afternoon.” And he waddled away, crossing the stage on his flat feet.