The Kindness of Strangers

by Salka Viertel

  As a student I had met, in Fanny Muetter’s circle, Franz Singer, and his girlfriend, Friedl Dicker, both talented artists who stretched their aims far beyond painting. They believed fanatically in new mediums of expression which, had they presented them forty years later, would have been a great success. They were planning workshops to make a new kind of furniture, looms to weave new materials, bookbinding, printing and even publishing. They invented new shapes for pottery and an ultrarevolutionary puppet theater. Their workshop would only accept orders from customers who respected the creative freedom of artists and artisans. Naturally, they were interested in designing sets and costumes for our theater.

  Long before we knew each other, Berthold, Ludwig and I had been good friends of Franz Singer and admired his stubborn integrity. I was not always in agreement with his purism, especially when we discussed theater and dramatic productions and, to be honest, I would have gladly dispensed with the preponderance of distracting sets. Often I would have preferred an empty stage with all attention centered on the performance. The most impressive sets could not help, when the actors spoke badly and were inadequate. When I said this to Franz and Friedl I rarely encountered opposition. With a shrewd smile Franz would put his hand on mine and ask: “But you admit that a set, lighting and costume can help you to act?” Of course I agreed. Then Friedl continued ambiguously: “Then why shouldn’t the sets reflect or symbolize the context of the play?” Berthold and Kortner trusted their theories and let them make the set and costumes for the first offering of Die Truppe: The Merchant of Venice.

  I did not think that it was a play for Die Truppe. The reason for producing it was not to pay homage to Shakespeare, but Kortner’s understandable desire to play Shylock. Antonio was Rudolf Forster, who accepted the part only after much persuasion. Forster was then one of the most interesting and talented actors on the German stage.

  In 1923 when we founded Die Truppe, the dollar was worth more than nine thousand marks, and the French had occupied the Ruhr. Our sponsor, the millionaire, was not only married to an heiress, but was also increasing his fortune by currency speculations. For a modest amount of dollars Die Truppe gave him cultural and social importance. Our business manager, Dr. Bruck, had leased a theater in far off East Berlin, the only one he could get. The actors’ contracts were for a year; salaries were based on the Index of December 1922, and regulated according to the standing of the mark. The stars were to receive at first between seven and nine million marks a year, plus a percentage of the net profit. They soon became billionaires.

  Die Truppe was to present a new play each month, with which one part of the ensemble would travel, while the other played it in Berlin. In the building of a repertory and the choice of plays, Berthold was helped by a literary advisor (Dramaturg), Mr. Heinrich Fischer. When I had played Judith in the Grosses Schauspielhaus a young man came backstage one evening to express his enthusiasm. It turned out that he was an ardent adherent of Die Fackel, and had appreciated greatly Berthold’s articles about Karl Kraus. There was no doubt that Heinrich Fischer was “one of us.” He shared our idealism, our artistic convictions, but most of all, our lack of experience. His literary taste was incorruptible and unbiased.

  That year Berthold did not go with me and the children to Wychylowka, but stayed in Berlin to audition actors and prepare the opening. The rehearsals began in August. The summer in Poland was wonderful and I enjoyed my family, the bathing in the Dnjester and the great musical feasts Edward offered us. But Berthold’s ominous letters forced me to cut short our vacation and return to Berlin.

  As it was impossible to find a furnished apartment, I remembered that a friend had spoken highly of a pension in the west. Its owner was Fräulein Luise Wenzel. Tall, almost haggard, nearing fifty, she resembled the portraits of England’s Elizabeth I. Her dear and penetrating eyes were blue-green, which was appropriate, as she was the daughter of a sea captain. Having always lived on boats she walked with a sailor’s rolling gait, and had the fresh, breezy outspokenness of people who don’t waste words and never evade a direct yes or no. And so not only did we find shelter but also a friend. Elizabeth, as we called her, gave me and Berthold two quiet rooms which she used to keep for herself, while the children and Fräulein Thea had theirs close by on the same corridor.

  Immediately after the children were installed I took the subway to the theater and arrived to find a divided ensemble, holding back Kortner on one side of the stage and Berthold on the other. The reasons for the flare-up, besides disagreements about interpretation, were the sets Friedl and Franz had made. My appearance calmed the belligerents. Berthold resumed the rehearsal and Kortner asked me to lunch. In the Bristol Bar he unburdened his grievances. I remember that we were both very hungry and I devoured an excellent Beef Stroganoff while listening to an impassioned and eloquent indictment of my husband. I was not surprised. Years later, after he returned from his Nazi-imposed exile, Kortner became one of Germany’s most successful stage directors. He had never been the man to take direction himself or even to amalgamate his own ideas with those of another. Worse than that, he could not bear anyone else to direct Johanna Hofer. Then there were always sycophants flattering either Kortner or Berthold, reporting and distorting every word said in anger. Anyway, the rising animosity exceeded all reason and could only be explained by the tensions, insecurity and extraordinary pressures imposed upon everyone.

  Summoned from Hamburg, Ludwig conducted the negotiations with Franz and Friedl, persuading them to change the costumes, as his was the only authority on art they respected. They compromised in order to make the performance possible.

  The première was an enormous success for Kortner. The reviewers’ opinions about Berthold’s direction varied, but all were unanimous in their condemnation of the sets. Today, as our eyes have become accustomed to surrealism, expressionism and abstract art, Franz Singer and Friedl would be greatly admired. They had made serious mistakes in the costumes, which were too symbolic and stiff, but the sets, at least those I remember, had beautiful colors and shapes. However Berlin had seen the “real” Venice of Max Reinhardt and did not like it in triangles and cubes.

  Berthold and Kortner stopped speaking to each other. Kortner asked for the annulment of his and Johanna Hofer’s contracts, which was granted. The Merchant of Venice ran for a month, after which the divorce became final—Kortner and his wife left Die Truppe, which nevertheless continued to exist.

  As our second play we had planned Eugene O’Neill’s Emperor Jones with Kortner. Deprived of our main actor we had to find a replacement. Bertolt Brecht, who was in Munich, recommended a young, unknown actor, Oskar Homolka, and Karl Kraus supported this recommendation. Homolka was to play at the Kammerspiele in Brecht’s adaptation of Marlowe’s Edward II, but the production had run into difficulties and he was free. Berthold sent me to Munich to report if Homolka could carry the O’Neill play.

  We met in the house of Lion and Martha Feuchtwanger. Brecht had shaved and was vigorously “selling” Homolka. At a glance I knew that he was right for the part. We telephoned Berthold; he and Homolka agreed quickly about the terms, and a few days later rehearsals began. The sets this time were made by the painter, F. Kiesler, and although the jungle was just as geometric as Franz Singer’s Venetian streets, Homolka was able to convey the necessary horror. He got rave notices. Emperor Jones could have had a long run, but it was a play that kept only one actor busy, and our ensemble became restless. Also we had to stick to our program.

  Knut Hamsun’s Vom Teufel geholt (Driven by the Devil) had been selected as our third play, with me being “driven.” My role was that of a nymphomaniac, a once glorious cabaret singer, desperately frightened of losing her grasp on men, and falling from one degradation to another, until the end when she welcomes with open arms the Negro butler of her former lover. Why we all liked this play seems incomprehensible now, but Hamsun had the same attraction for our generation that Hemingway had for the “lost” one.

  It was a cold and
wet winter and the dollar now stood at between two and three billion marks. The Government notes were covered with zeros. We got paid every day; at noon we would appear at the cashiers, our billions and trillions stuffed into large paper bags or suitcases, and those of us who lived in boarding houses would rush home to deliver cash to our distraught landladies, who hastened to the stores and bought food before the Stock Exchange closed and another deluge of marks swept away the value of the old ones. Only the heroism of our Elizabeth and a kind of Galgenhumor made it possible to live, love and go on stage.

  I was amazed that there were still people who would buy tickets, but they did; and tottering but determined, Die Truppe continued its frail existence. We played Georg Kaiser’s Nebeneinander, with sets by George Grosz, and it was the only unanimous success we had. Even the most reactionary press praised the excellent performances. Night after night we were sold out, only to see in the morning paper that we were just as broke as ever. And in the audience sat foreigners who lived like kings on ten dollars a week.

  Vincent, a delicate, sophisticated comedy by Robert Musil, was much too intellectual for the audiences, and I don’t remember much about it, because Peter had pneumonia. He was very ill. But even at his bedside I could not stay out of the stormy affairs of Die Truppe. An organization like ours could not satisfy all its members, and there were always some who coveted the part another played, or were at odds with the one they had. My job was to comfort and explain and also to coach.

  Karl Kraus arrived in Berlin and to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of Die Fackel, Berthold planned to stage his two one-act plays: Das Traumstueck and Traumtheater. It was to be the last act of faith of the dying Truppe.

  Those days of despair, inflation, and worry about a sick child are irresistibly connected in my memory with the sight of Ketchup. Among other blessings from America, that red sauce had appeared in Berlin, and the famous Kempinsky had several, in all shades of pink but all tasting alike. Kraus was addicted to it and every day an attractive actress, Caecilie L., Kraus, Berthold, Ludwig and I lunched at Kempinsky’s. Kraus’s irritation with the waiters, impervious to his sarcastic remarks, and the sending back of dishes Caecilie tasted and did not like, were most trying. Caecilie was overacting the role of a capricious female, and our great Karl was enslaved.

  For twenty-five years Die Fackel had been attacking and accusing the bourgeois press of lying, war-mongering, scandal-snooping, servility to those in power, hypocrisy and corruption of the language. It did not spare theatrical critics. Kraus’s favorite target among many others was the mighty Alfred Kerr from the Berliner Tageblatt. To celebrate Die Fackel was to challenge the power off the press.

  When, at the première, Berthold stepped before the curtain to tell the audience what Die Fackel had stood for, for over a quarter of a century, actors and stagehands gathered in the wings in expectation of a scandal. The house was packed. The people Karl Kraus had so mercilessly castigated, occupied the front rows.

  The evening has been called by those who witnessed it a memorable one, but a sponge, soaked in blood has wiped over the slate on which it might have been recorded. The moral courage displayed by the troupe and its director has vanished from German intellectual life, and also the courage of the audience, who stood up at the end and cheered. The repercussion was inevitable. Our sponsor withdrew his financial support, then the stabilization of the mark sealed our financial debacle.

  Many of our ensemble had a ten-month contract. As we had closed after seven months they were entitled to three more months’ salary. We had no further financing, and the lawyers advised Die Truppe to declare bankruptcy. But though he incurred personal debt, Berthold raised the necessary sum (in dollars), so that the actors should receive their salaries.

  The only thing which remains of the ensemble spirit is a sheet of paper on which the members of Die Truppe signed their names and expressed their appreciation:

  With tonight’s performance ends the first season of Die Truppe. It has completed as difficult work as could ever be achieved by an experimental theater. It was full of joy and rich in artistic gain. The members of Die Truppe feel deep gratitude toward their leader, whose courageous, idealistic drive has led them not only through all the hazards of this year, but given them also invigorating help in their immediate artistic tasks. The good spirit which manifested itself as much among the members of the ensemble as in their relationship to their director, is the most certain evidence of the vitality of an idealistic enterprise.

  In The Fervent Years Harold Clurman mentions that when The Group Theater encountered financial difficulties, the well-paid members relinquished part of their salaries to help their poorer colleagues. Such comradely spirit was lacking in our ensemble. Berthold and I alone carried the burden of the debts of Die Truppe. The bankers charged high interest, and also we owed money to friends: Karl Kraus and Ludwig. Although both were lenient, our obligations to them were most pressing, as neither of them was rich.

  Peter’s health was still very fragile. The doctor advised mountain air, and I took him and Hans to the Semmering, while Berthold stayed in Berlin to work on a film. Immediately afterward he began rehearsals at the Lessing Theater, of Paul Reynal’s anti-war drama The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier; a play which Paris had rejected as defeatist. In Berlin it became a hit. The hero could be any young soldier who has to sacrifice his life. He sees at the front what all young men are forced to see, thinks what they all think, suffers what they all suffer. His thoughts are everyone’s thoughts, his actions and his death anonymous. “I despise this war,” he says, “I fight with contempt.” And then in one heart-breaking sentence he expresses his fate and the fate of his comrades: “Some generations have no luck.”

  •

  With my sunburned sons, I returned to Berlin. We now had an apartment in Charlottenburg, surrounded by parks and gardens, but in spite of Berthold’s earnings, our finances were at their lowest ebb. Also his health had suffered. He was sleepless, nervous, and showing symptoms of diabetes—which had to be controlled by diet and insulin.

  Strange men appeared regularly in our apartment to seize furniture and silver, refusing to believe that it belonged to the land-lady. Our encounters with them began calmly and reasonably, but soon Berthold would spice the dialogue with biting epigrams, which were not appreciated, and it ended in absurd mutual insults. Berthold’s dress suit and winter coat would wander from Elizabeth Wenzel’s closet to Thea’s and back. My possessions were so humble that they were not worthy of legal attention. The engagement ring from Stas and a diamond brooch from Esther had been pawned to finance the hospital bills when Hans and Peter were born, and had never been redeemed.

  The harassments of poverty were persistent. I had been offered a part and could have contributed to our income, but had to refuse because I was pregnant. We did not have many friends in those days. Staunch and faithful were the Camil Hoffmanns, our Elizabeth, Ludwig, Karl Kraus and Alfred Polgar, Berthold’s old friend, whose subtle prose reflected all his personal charm and deceptive gentleness.

  •

  Friedrich Ebert, the first President of the Weimar Republic, died on February 28, 1925. There were new elections and the National Socialists supported General Ludendorff. Karl Jarres, a National candidate, led against the socialist Otto Braun but without a decisive majority. Ludendorff received only a small fraction of votes and was subsequently dropped by Hitler. A second election was called for April 26. On that day the Hoffmanns had asked us and several other people for dinner. An American journalist with a German wife, both anti-Russian, were worried that the communist Thaelmann could be elected. He had two million votes. Long after midnight the returns had not yet come in. Camil grew more and more pessimistic, while Irma, dead tired, was concealing spells of yawning. I finally broke up the vigil, suggesting that we go home and let the morning papers surprise us. We said goodnight to our hosts and waited outside for a taxi. The cool, pleasant scent of spring drifted in from the Tiergarten; a big, black
automobile turned into the street and slowed down as it passed us; the head of a German military man popped out of the window, shouting happily: “Hindenburg ist gewaehlt! Hindenburg is President! Hurrah!” Waving to us he disappeared around the corner, convinced that he had made us supremely happy.

  On the surface little seemed changed: Hindenburg had sworn to maintain the Constitution of the Republic, Stresemann remained in office, the Dawes Plan considerably eased the payments of war reparations, and the French withdrew from the Ruhr.

  Berlin had become increasingly international and quite mad, with night clubs for homosexuals, male and female prostitution, drug peddling and drug addiction. The kinos and theaters were packed and D. W. Griffith and American Westerns were giving us glimpses of the “new world.” A Negro revue with Paul Douglas and Josephine Baker was a sensational success. Her radiant sensuality, humor and wild grace, the impudent charm of her nakedness, were a triumphant contrast to the decadence of most postwar amusement.

  The Stanislawski Ensemble returned with The Cherry Orchard, Uncle Vanya and The Three Sisters. Eisenstein’s Potemkin created an uproar, partly because it was forbidden but more because it was a masterpiece. Another sensation was Mauritz Stiller’s Gösta Berling. There was a loud gasp from the audience when the extraordinary face of the young Greta Garbo appeared on the screen.

  Around that time Berthold was working on a film. I think it was The Wig (Die Peruecke), and his cameraman was Hjalmar Lerski, a wonderful artist. He and his wife came to see us often. It was Lerski who encouraged me to write my first film story, which was based on a novel by Barbey d’Aurevilly. I wrote it in longhand on large sheets of paper, in one big sweep. Lerski read it and showed it uncorrected to Gabriel Pascal, who later became G. B. Shaw’s favorite film producer. He was then head of a film company called The Nordisk and bought the story. I felt invincible but The Nordisk soon collapsed and the film was never produced. Miraculously, my check for five thousand rentenmark did not bounce.