It was a bad summer because of the ammunition dump, and the war bulletins. Later, when Edward arrived and a piano was rented and we all gathered around it, life became more normal, even the weather—until one day Andreas appeared.
It was an unexpected visit as he had not written that he would be transferred to Galicia. I introduced him to my family, which I had not dared to do in Vienna. Mama suspected my involvement and was disturbed.
•
When I returned to Vienna the rehearsals for The Lower Depths, in which I was playing Vassilisa, started. Andreas was in Hungary and we wrote each other every day. Suddenly, before the opening, I received a letter which said that he had proof that I had been unfaithful to him. He was breaking off our relationship, returning to his wife and did not want to see me again. I had not been unfaithful; Andreas’s accusation shattered me.
Help came from kind, loving Esther Mandl. She asked me to move to her apartment in the Zedlitzgasse, so that she should have me “at hand,” and see more of me. Her mother’s room was now empty, as Mrs. Koffler had suffered a mental breakdown and was confined to an institution. I gladly accepted as I feared that alone in my cold, dreary place I also would lose my mind.
Some weeks later Ellen Geyer said that after the performance she would like to meet me at the nearby café. I had a date with Fanny Muetter, but Ellen insisted that I break it because we were to meet a young stage director, Berthold Viertel, now on furlough from the Eastern Front. Her husband intended to sign him for the Neue Wiener Buehne as soon as he could get a release from the army.
I had previously run into his wife, Dr. Crete Viertel, a handsome woman, a little haughty and condescending. She had a chemistry degree, but to my surprise, she told me that she was taking dramatic lessons and wanted to be an actress.
I arrived late at the café, where Ellen and a dark-haired lieutenant were sitting at one of the tables, deeply engrossed in conversation. I went over and she made the introductions. The lieutenant got up. He was rather thin and not exactly a military figure. The very black hair made his face quite pale. It was a strong, attractive face dominated by a broad forehead, thick eyebrows and dark, compelling eyes. He offered me a cigarette, approved heartily that I did not smoke, and lit his and Ellen’s rapidly and nervously. I liked his hands.
“Mr. Viertel has only seen the first act,” said Ellen apologetically.
I had been distracted in the first act, but he said: “You were very good. When you entered I knew immediately that you owned the place.”
His voice had a dark, warm timbre. He continued staring at me with a curious and searching expression, then asked where I came from. “Sambor, Galicia.” “Galicia!” That was a new world to him, unknown until the war. It had been a revelation; he never thought he would love it so much. Enthusiastically he described to Ellen the Ukrainian peasants and Chassidic Jews he had met, their wisdom and humor, their hardships and philosophical endurance. He made me quite homesick and in some remote way, rather proud. He wanted me to tell him about my family and Wychylowka and could not hear enough about Loginoff and Niania and Edward. Especially Edward fascinated him. “Twelvetone in Sambor . . .” he kept repeating.
The café closed and we were faced with the difficulties of getting home. No buses nor streetcars were running anymore, and only one lone taxi, which we forced Ellen to take. Lieutenant Viertel insisted on accompanying me, though he lived on the opposite side of the town. And so we walked through the Ring and the inner city, past the Minoriten Church, the Freiung, Am Hof, discovering each other.
He was leaving in a few days, but he hoped to be back as a longer furlough was due to him, after two uninterrupted years at the front. He was certain that the war would last another year and he had told Emil Geyer that it was unrealistic to make any plans whatsoever. It was the end of 1916, the old Emperor had just died and it was as if his death had put a seal to the end of Austria. We both felt it strongly, though the Germans had rescued us on the Eastern Front.
“Still,” he said, “I could never have stayed behind and pursued my profession, while others were torn from their existence. I do not mean to sound heroic. I am not exposed to actual danger. I was in Serbia, but now I am quite safe.”
During the whole evening he had not spoken of his wife and I did not mention that I had met her. We arrived at my apartment building; I rang for the janitor. Berthold said: “You know that I am going to marry you?”
I laughed. “Aren’t you married already?”
“We are not living together, my wife and I,” he said quietly.
“But I am involved with somebody else.”
“It does not matter. I will marry you.”
•
The next day was a Sunday and I slept until the telephone woke me. It was Berthold Viertel, who wanted to know when we could see each other. He said that he had promised to look up the relatives of a comrade and they had asked him to lunch, but afterward he was free and wanted to meet me wherever I chose. I also had a luncheon invitation and gave him the telephone number of my hosts, so he could call me when he was about to leave. We discovered that we were both invited by the same people, a pleasant stage-struck couple I used to visit quite often.
“You see,” he said, “it was inevitable. Even if you had not come to the café last night, we would have met.”
The lunch was sensational, as our wealthy hosts had exploited their black market connections lavishly. I felt warm, well-fed and exuberant as I had not been for many, many months. Afterward Berthold took me to the Café Central. In the entrance we caught a glimpse of Peter Altenberg, who looked like Verlaine and wrote enchanting short stories. He was wrapped in a dark loden cape, which, as he assured everybody, had the magic quality of lifting him into the air and making him able to fly. We watched his takeoff: he unfolded his wings and disappeared around the corner.
This encounter was the cue for Berthold to talk about the time when, at the age of sixteen, he was skipping classes, following Peter Altenberg around and, driving to desperation his very “buergerlich” Jewish parents. A friend showed his poems to Karl Kraus, who published them in Die Fackel. Had I ever read Die Fackel? Had I an idea who Karl Kraus was? The press never mentioned him. Had I ever heard Kraus read Shakespeare or his own poems? No, I hadn’t.
For Berthold, Karl Kraus was a genius, a prophet, the greatest satirical writer since Swift, a lone voice raised against the corrupt values of our time, against social injustice and the general vulgarization of taste by the hideous jargon of publicity; a voice passionately protesting the war and attacking all those who, untouched and unmoved by the slaughter of millions, profited by it.
I had not noticed that Grete, his wife, had come in with some friends. Berthold looked up and waved to her. She stopped at our table and reminded him that a Kraus lecture was taking place that evening and that Kraus would not forgive him if he missed it.
When we arrived, the hall was already packed with people. Kraus appeared on the podium, a fragile, gray-haired man with a stoop, one shoulder higher than the other. When he began to speak I was startled by the strength and sonority of his voice, his superb diction and his incredible vitality. He had a noble, finely chiseled face and very expressive hands. To protest against the war in 1916 took great courage, also to ridicule the warlords, many of whom were members of the Imperial family. He quoted those writers, poets, and lyricists who were glorifying death on the battlefields, while they themselves were safely ensconced behind an editor’s desk. The audience shouted, cried, laughed and cheered. I also cried, laughed and applauded and Berthold beamed with satisfaction.
There were only a few people at Karl Kraus’s table when we joined him later; next to him sat his friend, a blond lady, pretty but no longer young. He looked at me curiously with his large, pale eyes: I was too awed to say anything. He and Berthold began talking about people I did not know and articles I had not read. Everything Kraus said was extraordinary, and brilliantly formulated; his constant obsession was his cause an
d himself. Only later, when I knew him well, did I understand his great heart. The evening seemed never to end; nobody thought of going home. I still remember the shocked expression on the blond lady’s face when Berthold got up, saying that I was exhausted and that he had to take me home. Next day he went back to the front.
Long, wonderful letters from a place called Kolendziany began to arrive every morning. They were about the Ukrainian country, its people, the war, but most of all they were about us. He became as close to me as Edward. I also wrote every day. Later we discovered that we were writing the same thoughts and the same words at precisely the same moment. Kolendziany, that faraway village, became a symbol.
The Neue Wiener Buehne was preparing Strindberg’s Father, with Paul Wegener as guest star. I was to play my first Strindberg woman, Laura.
Paul Wegener arrived and the rehearsals were long and intense. The performance was a great success. Encouraged, Emil Geyer decided to produce Ibsen’s John Gabriel Borkman with Steinrueck and Ellen in the role she had always wanted to play: the tender, loving Ella Rentheim. A young, talented actress, Leontine Sagan, who distinguished herself later directing the film Maedchen in Uniform, played Mrs. Wilson and I was Borkman’s hard, pitiless wife Gunhild.
We gave guest performances of Borkman and Der Graf von Gleichen in Linz, Graz and Innsbruck. It was a wonderful experience to be in daily contact with an artist like Steinrueck. Then the season ended and I went home for the summer. A month later Berthold arrived from Kolendziany to visit me and Wychylowka.
12
IN THE SPRING OF 1917 the population of Wychylowka had been increased by a tiny but self-assertive creature named Viktoria. She was the product of Loginoff’s and Marynia’s love. When I arrived she was already three months old and my father still unaware of her existence—Marynia’s voluminous skirts had hidden her pregnancy from his unsuspecting eye. The name “Viktoria” suggested by Mama was to symbolize the victory of love over the “antifraternization law.” Like the child Moses, little Viktoria slept in her basket among the shrubs, or was carried by her father to the field whenever he was working there. At night she shared his quarters in the laundry room. Loginoff was a dedicated father, whereas Marynia seemed rather casual about the blessings of motherhood. Very soon she ceased to give the baby her breast, and whoever walked by the basket stuck the milkbottle into the mouth of the happily kicking and gurgling Viktoria, or fed her a spoonful of cereal. On this collective care the baby thrived.
In April America declared war on Germany and Austria, and we knew that we were defeated. We read that there was mutiny in the Russian, French and Italian regiments, but the newspapers never mentioned that the same was happening in our armies.
When, on a lovely summer morning, Berthold arrived at the house, I was at the far end of the garden changing Viktoria’s diapers. Our barefooted shepherd-butler Ivan led Berthold straight to me, as nobody else was at home. Mama was shopping, my father in his office, Loginoff and Niania in the field. Marynia, who was to watch over her child while gathering raspberries for dinner, had followed Loginoff. Neither Edward nor Rose had come home that summer. Dusko, though only seventeen, had volunteered and was training with an artillery regiment in a Czech town.
Although he later denied it, Berthold’s face took on an odd expression when he surprised me with a baby in my arms. He always insisted, however, that it would not have made the least bit of difference to him had he found me surrounded by four illegitimate children.
The whole household approved of Berthold. Niania liked him at once, Mama found him most interesting, and he also pleased Papa, who only thought it “odd” that my suitors were mostly married men.
Our next meeting was in Vienna and it coincided with the furlough of his friend Ludwig Muenz. The introduction took place in the inevitable Café Central. Ludwig was unusually handsome, immaculate in his officer’s uniform, but tense; he concealed his nervousness with loud laughter.
Berthold had warned me not to ask Ludwig about his war experiences. He had been on the Italian Front, commanding an artillery unit. They had been exposed for many days and nights to the fire of a camouflaged Italian battery and had heavy casualties. At last he located the battery and moved his guns to another position. Next morning he saw the Italians below him. They were a bunch of young boys, rinsing their canteens, unaware that they were now a perfect target. He gave the command to fire. The hit was direct and the nightmare never ceased to haunt him.
Grete Viertel joined us and we began to talk about the theater. Determined to show me off, Berthold insisted that I tell them about the Wallenstein performance in Zurich and my audition with Max Reinhardt. These were his favorite stories. They all laughed. Ludwig wondered what auditions were like, and Grete suggested that we go to her place and that I repeat the scenes I had played for Reinhardt. It would be her farewell party as she had signed a contract with a provincial theater in Germany. So we all went. Her room was quite large and, like most rooms in wartime, cold and badly lit. We pushed the furniture toward the wall, leaving space in the center.
I started with Phaedra, and after that Berthold asked me in a hushed voice to do Penthesilea. Each time I finished a scene he said: “Go on, please,” and cued me to the next. Everyone seemed very moved. When they spoke it sounded like the voices in a sickroom. Then they started berating me for my indolence, for wasting my time, for letting myself be pushed around and not demanding release from my contract. I had lacked encouragement and confirmation for so long, that their praise and enthusiasm made me exuberant. Suddenly everyone grew very loud, complained of a terrific appetite and had to eat at once. Ludwig suggested that we go to the Café X., Karl Kraus’s headquarters, which would serve us relatively decent food. Anyway, he and Berthold had promised to look up the master. Grete declined to come with us and I said good-bye to her. We never met again.
On the street Ludwig asked Berthold if it was true that he had asked Grete for a divorce. “Yes, I have,” was Berthold’s curt reply.
If there was any bitterness Grete had not shown it.
Kraus was alone at his usual table, piles of newspapers around him. He looked thin and pale. “Worn out,” as Berthold said, “by his daily polemics against every single word printed in the newspapers.”
At the sight of Berthold and Ludwig, he brightened, though reproaching them for being late.
“You must forgive us,” said Ludwig. “Something very important happened.” He liked to use the word “important.”
Kraus looked puzzled and they told him about my “audition.” I felt embarrassed, but Kraus was interested and wanted to know more about me. Theater was his obsession; he had memories of the old Burgtheater actors and, as he described them, they must have been volcanoes of passion and masters of characterization. He loathed the now fashionable “naturalness” and mumbling on the stage. He considered Reinhardt the greatest offender against Wortregie, despised his publicity and the international ballyhoo around him. I summoned my courage and defended Reinhardt.
“He liked you a lot. You really got away with murder,” laughed Berthold when we were both walking toward my house. We had left Ludwig with Kraus, who never went home before dawn. A taxi passed and we hailed it. That night we stayed together, and all the other days and nights of Berthold’s furlough.
The Russian Revolution and the collapse of the Eastern Front precipitated our next meeting. After three years at the front Berthold had the right to be recalled for a civilian job. The Prager Tageblatt engaged him as theatrical critic and columnist.
Berthold’s parents were business people and belonged to that same middle class their son so strongly disliked and which his whole being so violently opposed. His father was a manufacturer of furniture, on a small scale, which he exported to Russia. The war had ruined his business and he complained a lot, though the family seemed quite well-off. A wiry, nervous man in his fifties, he was restless and mercurial, the expression of his gray eyes constantly changing from mischief to melancholy. He had
lost his left hand trying to retrieve his hat from under a train which was beginning to move, but I have never seen anybody tie a parcel, slice bread, peel an apple or orange as neatly and efficiently as he did with his one hand. We were on excellent terms, but Berthold’s mother was not pleased that he wanted to marry an actress. Even after I had presented her with three grandsons she did not get over it.
Immediately after Berthold’s return from the army he and Grete were divorced, and our wedding date was set for April 30, 1918. Mama promised to attend but Papa only sent his best wishes; he was too harassed in his office. Rose was in a play in Berlin, Dusko on the Western Front. But Edward had been transferred to Vienna, where the “Schoenbergianers” were gathering around the master, who had been drafted and was patriotically fulfilling some dreary barrack duties. I remember an afternoon at his house in Moedling, with Edward, Anton von Webern and Erwin Stein, all in baggy, soldier uniforms.
As soon as Berthold started his job in Prague he got an unexpected offer to direct at the Royal Theater in Dresden. Its head, Count von Seebach, invited him to come to Dresden to discuss a contract. Aroused from my lethargy by Berthold’s and Ludwig’s prodding, I also had begun negotiations with German directors.
In high spirits we decided to have a premarital honeymoon and travel together, first to Berlin where I was to meet a Munich producer and where Berthold was eagerly awaited by Siegfried Jakobsohn, the publisher of the Schaubuehne, to which he was contributor. Years later Die Schaubuehne changed to the Weltbuehne, and its new publisher, Carl von Ossiectzki, was to become the only recipient of the Nobel Prize given to an inmate of a Nazi concentration camp.
Drab, cold and hungry as it was, Berlin seemed much more alive than Vienna. The atmosphere was more invigorating, the plays more interesting, the audiences more responsive, though just as peaked and gray-faced as the Viennese.
The Kindness of Strangers Page 12