The Kindness of Strangers

by Salka Viertel

  I was combining my household chores with assisting Berthold in his work on the screenplay, but as we now had a little more money we decided to engage a young woman “with a pleasant personality,” who proved herself much more efficient, though less romantic than Thea. To Fräulein Laue we could safely entrust our two sons when the time came for me to go to hospital. As Peter had to spend another summer on the Semmering I followed the advice of Berthold’s sister Paula to have my baby in Vienna.

  Babies abounded in our family that year. In July Edward and Hilda had become the parents of a little girl, my own confinement was close, and Rose was expecting her first in the autumn. The days were terribly hot and I did not go out. The evenings were invariably spent with Karl Kraus. The endurance with which he and his friends could sit for hours at the coffee-house table was unequaled. Had I dared to say that I was worn out and wanted to go to bed, he would have been most concerned but also appalled. So, as long as I could carry on in my semi-conscious way, I said that I was fine and prayed that the waiters would turn off the lights.

  Kraus’s tyranny did not stop me from being extremely fond of him. I felt his great loneliness, which increased the older and more famous he became. In Vienna I heard him read his war drama The Last Days of Mankind. “A play meant for a Martian theater. Audiences of this world could not bear it, as it is blood of their blood and its happenings so unreal, unthinkable and inaccessible to a wakeful mind, that they cannot be remembered and will only persist as a bloody nightmare in which vaudeville characters enact the tragedy of mankind.”

  •

  On August 7 my third son, Thomas, was born. He had red hair, was strong, well-shaped and seemed of such a sweet and gentle disposition that I immediately worried about how he would cope with this harsh, cruel world.

  18

  GENTHINER STRASSE 19 WAS OUR NEXT ADDRESS, and it was destined to be our last “home” in Berlin. Close to the Tiergarten and only two blocks away from the school where Hans was enrolled in the first grade, it was conveniently situated. The large Wilhelminian rooms were less tasteless than the places we had had before, and provided Berthold with enough space for pacing up and down, without the danger of stepping on the boys’ blocks and railroad constructions.

  Karl Kraus and Ludwig arrived, the nightly session continued, making it difficult for me to get up in the morning and give Tommy his bottle.

  The circle of our friends became larger as impatient youth began to invade Berlin. Thomas Mann’s children Klaus and Erika, Pamela Wedekind, Mops Sternheim and Anna Mahler, Gustav Mahler’s daughter, briefly married to the composer Ernst Krenek, emerged from their nurseries to join us at our table in the Romanisches café, bringing freshness of outlook and a reckless disrespect for the status quo. Some of them soon disappeared from our lives. Among those who remained were Francesco and Eleonora von Mendelssohn, the children of Guilletta and Robert von Mendelssohn, of the renowned banking house. One hundred and fifty years of intermarriage with Italian and Basque women had contributed beauty, talent and eccentricity to the ancient Jewish blood of the eighteenth century philosopher Moses Mendelssohn. From their father and Italian mother, Francesco and Eleonora inherited their musicality and obsession with the theater. As Duse was her godmother, it was obvious that Eleonora was destined to be an actress. Robert von Mendelssohn had died, their mother lived in Florence, and brother and sister had at their disposal the large Grünewald villa with its extensive library and famous collection of paintings.

  Beauty, intelligence, money and the background of Italian, German and French culture could have given Francesco and Eleonora a leading role in Berlin society—but they preferred the friendship of actors and bohemians. Now and then Francesco, flamboyant and ostentatious, united the diverse elements: high society, theater and film people, diplomats, prize-fighters and marathon cyclists, at huge receptions.

  Eleonora was twenty-four and looked like a blue-eyed Nefertiti. She had a contract with the Schauspielhaus in Duesseldorf, but was quite unprepared for the parts she was to play. The Duesseldorf Schauspielhaus, with its own dramatic school under the leadership of Luise Dumont and Gustav Lindemann, was a renowned and respected theater. The Lindemanns had expressed great sympathy and admiration for the valiant struggle of the Truppe. They had always endorsed a theater with cultural responsibility, and through Eleonora they let us know that they would like us to take over their theater.

  A few weeks later—I just had given Tommy his bath—the door opened and Berthold motioned two people to enter; they were Luise Dumont and Gustav Lindemann. It was not from gallantry that Luise’s name always preceded Gustav’s. Decidedly she was the domineering personality. When I met her she must have been sixty, perhaps more. Of middle height, with magnificent, compelling eyes, her well-groomed, black hair streaked with gray, she had, in spite of her square, peasant body, the grandeur of a Roman empress. Her husband, younger than she, was handsome, inscrutable and had dreamy, velvety eyes. But he was a hard-working, disciplined artist.

  They both felt that the time had come for them to sit back, help and advise, and “let a younger leader hold the reins.” And instantly they knew that Berthold was the one to continue their work. Then having seen me—I was playing with Steinrueck Romain Rolland’s Play of Love and Death—they had nodded to each other in silent agreement.

  “You are real, my dear child,” Luise proclaimed. “Every word you say rings true. You and Viertel are out of place in this hellish Berlin.”

  They knew about our financial plight and were promising us years of security, productive work, and the advantage of their invaluable experience. In return they asked that we give their cherished theater our talent and our idealism. Gustav added that an ensemble meant not only a dedicated group of actors, it also needed organization and a firm hand. Berthold and I sat there like children in front of the Christmas tree. What we had aimed at had failed, but now it was miraculously offered to us on a silver platter.

  The Lindemanns told us of their beginnings, their failures and successes, and explained the organization of their theater. Gustav would add funny marginal remarks when Luise was bitter about one or another deception. They were both fascinating and entertaining and it was impossible not to reciprocate their warm and spontaneous affection.

  Luise asked me if I had any experience in teaching, and when I told her that the developing of young talent was one of the aims of Die Truppe, she suggested I take over her drama classes. At the end of the evening we were deep in projects for the next season, full of new ideas and all madly in love with each other. When we said good-bye, the childless Luise whispered that she had found in me what she had always longed for: a daughter.

  After they had left, Berthold said that everything seemed too marvelous to be true. Emotionally we were already committed. Dreading the pressures and inconsistencies of the commercial theater, Berthold, although he loved Berlin, longed for a long-range, artistic program, and I was looking forward to the varied, interesting work the Lindemanns offered me. Of course, Luise was overwhelming, but she was generous and warmhearted. Lastly, neither Berthold nor I had forgotten that during all our married years we had been trying to work together without harassment and intrigues. When our contracts arrived, we both signed with happy anticipation.

  The moment the die was cast Berthold began to regret our decision, which, in the end, had been much more his than mine; but by then I was numb about his vacillations. A feverish productivity possessed him. He wanted to make a film, to write a novel, new poems and essays. Words were Berthold’s magic and his weapon. He seduced and chastised with them. He would write letters unequaled in tenderness and beauty, and then wound mortally with a sentence. He had completed a short novel Das Gnadenbrot, for which the Hegener Verlag had been waiting a whole year, and was finishing a war book he had started in Kolendziany. I always loved this book but as it was autobiographical, he hesitated to have it published. Later, in the Thirties, when I begged him to resume work on it, he thought that it had lost its
impact. I always regretted it because it was such a fascinating portrait of Berthold.

  •

  When we moved into our apartment we had told our landlady that we would not keep it during the summer, but now that we were leaving she took it as a personal insult. She became most disagreeable, constantly intruding into our rooms and when, at the end of May, Hans came down with scarlet fever, she insisted that we go immediately. As the owner of the apartment she had the right to turn out a person with a contagious disease. Her lawyer confirmed this.

  To make everything worse, Fräulein Laue was getting married and could not take Peter and Tommy to Wychylowka, while I was quarantined with Hans.

  Through the half-opened bathroom door I interviewed a Fräulein Helene Gnichwitz, a motherly or rather grandmotherly woman. She asked me to call her Nena and confessed that, though a Fräulein, she had a son in the Reichswehr. She was pleased that it did not matter to me and that I admired her courage.

  With her clean-cut, strong, German face, Nena was much more commanding in appearance than my old Niania; nevertheless, they had something in common: kindness and firmness. Poor little Peter was unusually quiet without Hans and me, but he liked Nena and I felt confident that once in the country and spoiled by his grandparents he would cheer up. It broke my heart when, looking down from the window, I saw him dejectedly getting into a taxi. Tommy, in Nena’s arms, fidgeted happily.

  Hans’s recovery was progressing and Francesco Mendelssohn offered us his hospitality. I began to breathe more freely. When I woke in the morning, my eyes would focus on Van Gogh’s “Blue Irises” above my bed, then turn to an exquisite pale green Monet on the opposite wall. (Berthold refused to have his coffee and rolls in the awesome presence of masterpieces. “I don’t take my meals in a museum.”)

  Life with Francesco was pleasant and just as bohemian as it had been before. He was enthusiastic, full of insatiable curiosity about new things, and boundlessly hospitable. A heterogeneous crowd converged on the Mendelssohn villa. One never knew who would appear half-naked at breakfast or join us at lunch. Sometimes it was the handsome art historian from Bale, Christoph Bernoulli (he wore pajamas!), with Alice, his charming Russian wife; Erich Engel, who discussed Hegel with Berthold and was soon to stage Brecht’s Dreigroschenoper. We adored his companion Sonia Okun, a gentle, lovely creature. She perished in Auschwitz.

  I don’t remember whether it was before Murnau had made his famous Sunrise or afterward that he asked Berthold to write his films. He was to be one of the first German motion-picture directors called to Hollywood. His film The Last Man, in which Emil Jannings played a lavatory attendant, was such a hit that the William Fox Studios signed him up at a huge salary. Emil Jannings, one of the many European stars to go to Hollywood, was grabbed by Paramount.

  A towering, red-haired man, Murnau was so stiff and reserved that at first sight he gave the impression of arrogance. His real name was Plumpe. We had started together at the Reinhardt Theater but when I laughingly reminded him that he had been one of the Greek warriors in Penthesilea, and that I was the cheeky Amazon who garlanded him with flowers, it obviously annoyed him. Later I knew that it was not difficult to “defrost” him and see his true value. What brought us together was our great fondness for Walter Spiess, who was leaving Germany, European culture, Western civilization and secret armaments for freedom and adventure in the Tahitian islands, then Bali—never to return.

  From the very beginning Berthold’s relationship with Murnau was complicated to say the least. He was constantly analysing his reactions, and rebelling against Murnau’s authoritative but deeply uncertain personality, and his pose of a grand seigneur. However, the few months spent in America had changed Murnau for the better: he was less Prussian and showed a more relaxed sense of humor.

  19

  ALL I KNEW ABOUT DUSSELDORF was that it is a city on the Rhine, occupied by French troops during the Napoleonic wars, and that Heinrich Heine had been born there. In his Das Buch le Grand, which I dearly loved when I was twelve years old, Heine says that in 1806 Emperor Napoleon had freed the Jews of Dusseldorf, who until then had lived in a ghetto, and had given them equal rights.

  We arrived in the afternoon, deposited the boys and Nena in our new lodgings and went with Gustav Lindemann to his and Luise’s place. They lived in the theater building. We crossed the dark, empty stage, then a long corridor, halted at a green, padded door which Gustav opened with a key, and found ourselves in a round, delightful room with flowers and plants outside and inside the windows. Luise in a long, red velvet gown welcomed us warmly, then led us through the ingeniously built apartment, which was in a small tower added to the theater.

  The next day the Lindemanns introduced Berthold to the Ensemble, while I enrolled Hans and Peter in school. Later with Tommy and Nena we went to look at the Rhine and watched Brueghel-like figures, men and women in thick, padded coats, selling fish and vegetables from anchored barges.

  It did not take us long to find out that the Ensemble was not as closely knit as we had been led to believe. It was rather like a large family ruled by a matriarch: instinctively everyone ran to “Mother” to complain, but officially it was Gustav who had greater authority and the emotional Luise “bowed to his decisions,” although she strongly influenced them. In that way, balancing her power, they had successfully ruled the theater for many years.

  All the young actors were waiting impatiently to work with Berthold. Eleonora Mendelssohn’s beauty was an indisputable asset, but she was considered a talented amateur, and Luise entrusted to me the task of making her a professional. I had been warned about Luise’s moodiness, her deviousness, and her habit of favoring those who flattered her; nevertheless, my personal and professional relationship with her proved the contrary. She respected my often dissenting views and was always generous with encouragement and praise. I began to teach in the dramatic school located on the upper floor of the theater. There were six girls and several young men in my class, among them a girl with fair, almost white hair and delicate skin, whose name was Ruth Greiner, and the small, dark Mia Engels, who was soon to marry Josef Gluecksmann, the young, handsome Dramaturg of the Schauspielhaus. Both became close friends.

  As I remember, Berthold’s first assignment was Marcel Achard’s circus comedy: Voulez-Vous Jouez Avec Moâ? a charming, frail play, which only mildly appealed to the Duesseldorf public. Our “official” introduction was in Schiller’s Mary Stuart, which had not been played at the Schauspielhaus for many years, with me as Mary Stuart, Lilly Kann as Queen Elizabeth, and Berthold’s staging.

  It was an undisputed success and we played it three times a week. My understudy, Eleonora, prayed every morning that I might catch cold or get a sore throat, so she would have a chance to substitute for me. But I did better than that!

  We were preparing a comedy by Lernet-Holenia and I had great fun playing a voluptuous adultress in trouble. At the dress rehearsal I had fever and spells of dizziness; nevertheless, in the evening I played Mary Stuart as usual. Afterward I went to bed and was so cold that my teeth chattered. Still, I had no pain. The doctor came in the morning and told the Lindemanns they should be prepared for a change in the repertory, because I should stay in bed. Gustav was distressed. The theater was sold out and the comedy promised to become the moneymaker they were hoping for. Berthold went to the theater to suggest a substitute. But Luise exclaimed: “No one can take over the part. I know Salka will not let us down—she’ll play and nothing will happen to her. . . .” Luise was a Christian Scientist. I swallowed pills, stayed in bed until evening, then, wrapped in my warmest coat, took a taxi to the theater. The doctor, who had seen me in the afternoon, issued another warning. I pooh-poohed it. I wasn’t coughing, or sneezing. Luise was right: nothing would happen to me. Berthold screamed that it was sheer madness and he and Luise had a violent quarrel in my dressing room. Their angry voices reverberated down the corridor while I was on my way to the stage. The doctor stood in the wings, checked my pulse, then shook h
is head in despair. The curtain went up. I was not quite conscious of what I was doing, but I could hear the audience laugh. Afterward Luise and Gustav embraced me and thanked me for saving the evening. His face grim, Berthold wrapped me in my coat and took me home.

  In the middle of the night I woke, feeling I was going to die. Two men in white coats were putting me on a stretcher; Nena was bending over me, saying: “I’ll never leave the boys, I promise you.” I remember the sound of the siren, the coolness of Berthold’s hand on my forehead and then for a long, long time I remained unconscious.

  One night the doctors thought I would not survive the crisis and they tried to reach Berthold. He was not at home and Nena did not know where to find him. Finally they located him in a restaurant, having a late supper with a pretty actress I shall call Therese, who was a good friend of ours. It was early morning when he arrived at the hospital. Luise never forgave him, that while his wife was dying he could eat, drink and “carry on a love affair.” Today pneumonia is treated with antibiotics and can be over in six days; but at that time the doctors considered it a miracle that I recovered.

  When I returned to our flower-filled apartment, Berthold told me that he and Luise were hardly speaking to each other. The Ensemble was divided into two camps, Gustav remaining in no man’s land between. Therese was the main scapegoat and did not get any new parts.

  •

  When I looked from our window or went for walks along the Rhine, I could often see young men in steel helmets pushing people off the sidewalks and singing the Horst Wessel Lied. From time to time, when we bought a “red” paper, we read that the old powers in Germany were clandestinely resuscitating the army.