The Kindness of Strangers

by Salka Viertel

  But I was still in “shock condition” after my illness and the conflict between Berthold and Luise depressed me greatly. It was obvious that Therese was in love with Berthold and I knew how susceptible he was to melancholy charm, persecuted innocence, loneliness, etc., etc. I begged Luise not to listen to gossip.

  I asked her why she took it upon herself to judge the affairs of others. She answered: “Because I know more about people than you.” However, a few days later I met Therese on the street and she told me that she had just got a very good part in Shaw’s Back to Methuselah, which Gustav was directing. I was cast in a very unimportant bit, “to restore discipline and underline the absence of favoritism in the Ensemble.”

  There was no mention anymore of our succession to the throne, and our “step-parents,” as Berthold now called the Lindemanns, had tacitly reclaimed their realm. Only one project remained unchanged: the tragedy Ignorabimus by Arno Holz, a strange drama about spiritualism, which since then has been plagiarized, banalized, and mutilated in films, but, as far as I know, never performed again. I had never had the remotest interest in spiritualism and the supernatural, but the part fascinated me. Having fearfully learned how easy it is for an exhausted heart to cease beating helped prepare me for my role: a woman who, from the beginning of the first act to the end of the fifth, stands under her own imaginary death sentence.

  The weeks of rehearsals, exciting as they were, seemed to me like a continuation of my illness. I went home limp with fatigue and only the children dispersed my gloom. But at night the uncanny part would take hold of me again, as in my childhood, when Mademoiselle Juliette scared me to death with her stories.

  Our tortures were not without reward. They earned Berthold and the actors a great success and the gratitude of the author, who, embittered by the neglect of his contemporaries, had at last seen his major work performed. Lean, tall, with a thick, white mane crowning his fine head, Arno Holz resembled Bertrand Russell. Outstanding among those who initiated a revolution in German drama, he has been forgotten by his country. Critics from Berlin and other German capitals, even those critical of the play, praised the courage of the Schauspielhaus.

  Immediately after the première Berthold resigned. Luise again offered me a long-term contract. “If you stay with us you will achieve your highest aims as an artist,” she told me. She was hurt that I refused, and our friendship ended.

  The season was over, the last performance of Ignorabimus happened to be on my birthday. Berthold was in Berlin, discussing film projects. Nena had packed all our belongings as we were going to Austria to stay with Eleonora Mendelssohn, who had invited us to her Schloss in Kammer. Later Berthold and I would go together on our first, longed-for holiday in Venice.

  My dressing room was filled with roses; they were on the dressing table, around the couch, everywhere. A new elegant suitcase, the gift of my pupils and colleagues, was filled with roses. Garlands of roses adorned the corridor through which I walked toward the stage. Only much later did I realize how final this farewell had been. . . .

  I have always remained grateful to the Lindemanns for the artistic opportunities they gave me. Both were extraordinary, courageous people and many new dramatists such as Franz Werfel, Fritz Unruh, Arno Holz, etc., owed much to them. After the war they were among the first to open their theater to Yvette Guilbert, Anna Pavlova, G. B. Shaw, Paul Reynal, Marcel Achard, Rabindranath Tagore and other foreigners. But the theater with its tawdry sins and grand, dramatic passions contradicted Luise’s mystical inclination. She was unable to transform it into a temple.

  •

  As the gypsy had told me, my happiness was near the water and in Venice there was plenty of it. We lived on the Lido, had a cabana on the beach, swam and lay in the sun. At lunchtime an airplane from the Tirol brought baskets of wild strawberries, and in the afternoon we would dress and take a vaporetto to Venice. After our last lira was spent I picked up the children in Kammer and took them for the rest of the summer to Poland. Berthold returned to Berlin. Murnau had arrived from Hollywood and wanted him to write a screenplay based on Herman Bang’s The Four Devils.

  20

  AGAIN WE WERE HAPPILY GATHERED together at Wychylowka on the hospitable veranda overlooking the large, wild garden. If it had not been for the children, growing so fast, it would have seemed that time had stood still. Papa and Mama had not changed and neither had Rose and Edward. Because we were so fundamentally influenced by our childhood we warmed ourselves at its glow in middle age. At Wychylowka all past struggle, achievement, success and failure submerged in a new hope.

  Of course, the youngest ones were stealing the show. The Gielens had proudly presented their daughter Carla Stella (Bibi, for short) to her grandparents. Had I had more patience with the camera, that summer would have been thoroughly documented. But my snapshots have faded and only the few Josef took still show the happy faces of all our children and Viktoria.

  Sometimes Edward, Rose and I would think wistfully of the trips we would have liked to take and the places we would like to visit, instead of spending our summers, year in and year out, in Poland. But the mere idea of not seeing our parents appeared sacrilegious. The house, though it had become more and more dilapidated, dirty and worn out, was still dear to us. It was wonderful to see Papa so well, holding himself erect and going every day to his office. Mama’s hair was snow-white, otherwise she was the same: lively, energetic, happy that the house was full of children and grandchildren.

  The only one who showed wear and tear was Niania. She could hardly walk and her head and hands were shaking with palsy. Dusko was at the peak of his fame as a soccer player, participating with his team in games which took him to different cities and countries. I remembered how on our trip to Sambor I was trapped into a dreary conversation with a fellow passenger. He was a middle-aged, well-fed gentleman, probably a lawyer or a government official, and of insatiable curiosity. After I told him where we were going and why, he asked me what my maiden name was. Collapsing in awe, he repeated: “Steuermann! Are you by any chance related to the famous Steuermann?” I was sure he meant Edward who, after the war, had achieved prominence as a pianist and teacher and had played with great success in Lwow a few months before. The man informed me that he was not speaking of Edward but of Dusko Steuermann, the famous soccer player. I repeated this story to my father, but he only shrugged.

  The dolce far niente was interrupted by a wire from Berthold: “WOULD YOU GO FOR THREE MONTHS TO AMERICA? HAVE OFFER FROM FOX TO WRITE AND DIRECT FILMS.”

  For the first time my father displayed interest in Berthold’s profession. He seemed also to have revised his attitude toward America: “Economic conditions in Europe are getting worse every day and, sad as it is for us to have you so far away, this is a chance you cannot dismiss lightly.” My mother agreed. Three months in America was not bad. She envied us the experience. But my father shook his head. “I don’t believe they would pay the trip for only three months.”

  Although I was hoping to play in Berlin, the desire to go to America was greater and I cabled yes. Then I asked my father where Hollywood was. He showed it to me on the map. So far away! On the Pacific!

  Berthold’s letter was studded with exclamation points:

  Salka! My dearest heart!

  Have I done the right thing? I have signed! It will now only depend on how soon I can extricate myself from my commitment with the Reinhardt theaters as to when we shall leave. If I can bear Hollywood for three years it would make us financially secure for the rest of our lives!

  The Americans can drop the option at the end of each year, but in case I want to return to Europe they are obliged to let me go. . . .

  Salka, they say Hollywood is a paradise! We will have a bungalow. They have engaged me as a writer but in the course of time I am to direct, which will mean a financial increase and a separate agreement. I will work at home and will have more time to be with you and the children. I am sure it will be wonderful for them!

  But
, of course, it’s a long journey! One week on the boat, four days and four nights on the train!

  Salka, I believe that this will be my salvation! I will also have time to write my own stuff, which I must do, to be at peace with myself! But this is only one aspect. What spurs me most is the memory of our days in Venice! Since Venice I have had the compulsive desire to take you and the children and go off somewhere and build a new life for us. I know that you will miss the theater terribly and I would never have signed if you had not agreed. But it will not be for long!

  Dearest heart, let me know your thoughts, give me advice, tell me your wishes, and embrace Papa and Mama tenderly from me. Tell them we shall be coming back every year. Dusseldorf also was far away. Kiss the three Americans: Hans, Peter and Tommy for me . . .

  So my father was right. The contract was for three years, not for three months. And the next mail brought me the much desired Berlin offer. At once I regretted my emphatic yes. But how could I have thwarted Berthold’s enthusiasm by thinking of myself?

  Now that Hollywood had become a reality my father began to worry. He had had some dealings with Americans, but only one lawyer in Cincinnati had proven to be a reliable man. Papa thought that if “this Fox company is a hoax,” Berthold could turn to him. My father hoped that his colleague was still alive; the last time he had heard from him was before the war.

  On my last afternoon at home, while we were having tea on the veranda, Niania appeared in the door and motioned to me. I followed her to her room and she asked me to lift the lid of her trunk, painted dark green and with an iron band around it. As a child I had often sat on it and was always admonished not to bang my feet against it. The trunk contained all Niania’s possessions: a few colorful handkerchiefs, three skirts, cotton shirts and in an old discarded candy box a few photos: one of herself in her turban-like headdress and a richly embroidered shirt, holding me, a serious-looking baby; another of her daughter and grandchildren, all very citified, sent from Chicago, where her son-in-law had been working in the slaughterhouses. There was also one of Vassili in his soldier’s uniform, and the card notifying her of his death in Siberia.

  She took out a neatly folded shirt with faded, red and blue cross-stitch embroidery, the same she wore in the photograph, and gave it to me.

  “I wanted to be buried in it,” she said, “but it’s better you have it, so you remember me in America.”

  I put my arms around her trembling, emaciated body and held her close. Softly I said: “I’ll be back, you will see! Next summer I’ll be back. . . .”

  But she shook her head and we both cried.

  21

  “HE WHO HAS BEGUN A THING must go on with it,” was the first sentence in Berthold’s English Grammar, while I contented myself with Thousand Words. A thousand words should be sufficient for our arrival in America; but the difficulty of pronouncing “TH” was insurmountable and so were the baffling vowels.

  Regardless of impatient cables from Murnau our departure was delayed: first by the State Department, which took its time in issuing our visas, and second by Berthold’s commitment to the Reinhardt theaters, which agreed to release him only after he had staged Peer Gynt.

  Many of our friends advised Berthold to go alone and see how he liked Hollywood, before moving his whole family westward. Murnau wrote that it would be more sensible to leave the children in Europe until we knew that we would stay.

  Alfred Polgar called to say that Ferenc Molnar was in Berlin and wanted to see us. He knew Hollywood and would give us firsthand information. We met for lunch in the Eden Hotel. Molnar, a plumpish, pink-cheeked, white-haired man, drew a very funny and extremely pessimistic picture of the virile Wild West, and of Hollywood. But he had an enormous appreciation of the dollar. “Save money and come back quickly,” was his dictum. Worried about the children I asked: “Is the climate really as bad as they say?” He laughed. “Very bad for writers.”

  Meanwhile there was a great deal of work for Berthold in Berlin, with the rehearsals of Peer Gynt, and immediately after the very successful première, he began to write the screenplay for The Four Devils, Murnau’s second American film.

  Social life was at its peak and there were endless parties. Francesco Mendelssohn gave a huge reception for Yvette Guilbert. Diplomats, society people, prominent actors, French and German film stars, all gathered in the white music salon, with its wonderful Corot landscapes, while Yvette sang her chansons and her ballads. She still had the red hair Toulouse-Lautrec had painted, the ravaged face, the expressive hands, and was still an unforgettable artist. After the concert there was a buffet supper and dancing. The famous French film director Jacques Feyder and his wife Françoise Rosay sat at our table. In tails and white tie, with his decadent thin face, Feyder looked tired and blasé. Françoise was tall and looked very Parisian in a red dress and her prematurely gray hair. Feyder told us that he had a contract with Metro Goldwyn Mayer and was also going to Hollywood. They were taking their three sons with them, who were the same ages as ours, and they looked forward to resuming our acquaintance.

  After midnight, sturdy young men in striped T-shirts, dirty trousers, woollen sweaters, some whose rolled-up sleeves bared colorful tattoos on their muscular arms, appeared in the drawing room. They came from the six-day bicycle race at the Sportspalast. The ambassadors withdrew quietly. Francesco not only had the gift of recalling, in all kinds of situations, identical scenes from a play, musical or film; he also liked to stage them in his house. That evening resembled A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was my last impression of Berlin.

  The visas had arrived and we booked our passage on the Albert Ballin, a Hamburg-America liner sailing from Hamburg on February 22, 1928. Suddenly the thought of the six thousand miles separating me from my sons made me panicky. If it had not been for Berthold and our determination to start a new life together, I would have stayed in Berlin.

  In the icy winter weather I went shopping for summer dresses and swimsuits, ordered light suits for Berthold and a new tuxedo and tails, which we were told were imperative. Hollywood was constantly discussed among our friends; some of them envied us the adventure, others pitied us, as so much was going on in the theater and interesting work had been offered us in Berlin. The Hoffmanns introduced us to Dorothy Thompson, the American columnist, who was about to marry Sinclair Lewis. She spoke German and invited us to dinner. I prepared myself by reading Arrowsmith. Sinclair Lewis’s French and German were as inadequate as our English, and as I had memorized only fifty of my thousand words, and Berthold had recklessly abandoned his grammar for Shakespeare’s Sonnets (insisting that they were easier to remember than “He who has begun a thing . . .”), the burden of the conversation was carried by Dorothy. She looked lovely in a blue dress with a gardenia corsage, the first I had seen since before the war. Sinclair Lewis, tall, gaunt, and in spite of his blotched face, enormously likeable, had no idea who we were. After each martini we smiled at each other.

  “You will love America,” Dorothy was saying, “it’s such a wide, great country and the people are very hospitable, you will see.” Sinclair Lewis got up abruptly and left the room. Dorothy went on talking about America and what an exciting time we would have because of the election year, which was a unique experience. Sinclair Lewis returned wearing a black wig and a thin black mustache plastered to his upper lip. He sat down and began to talk with a loud, nasal drawl. Dorothy laughed and explained that he was showing us a Southern gentleman and how they talked in Mississippi. He left again and came back with a short white beard, transformed into a Yankee from Maine or Massachusetts, I don’t remember which and would not have known the difference anyway. He changed twice more, appearing with red whiskers and then with a nice soft, droopy, blond mustache—while his food got cold.

  •

  We had our last meal at the Pension Wenzel. Hans and Peter, not fooled by our cheerfulness, were clinging to me, bravely promising that they would be good. Tommy, too little to participate in the farewell supper, was alread
y sleeping. Berthold’s Reisefieber had reached fantastic proportions. He lost and found his passport ten times, the tickets twenty times, until finally I put all the traveling documents in my bag and refused to surrender them.

  Elisabeth Wenzel and Francesco took us to the Lehrter Bahnhof. Again there were kisses and promises and when the train pulled out I broke down and cried.

  The Albert Ballin was smoothly proceeding westward when a stowaway was found in the hold. I was very much concerned about what would happen to him, but the Purser assured me that for ten days he would peel potatoes, then be locked up while the ship was in New York; then peel potatoes on his way back. In the hold also was a dead American officer, killed in the war; now a German ship was taking him home from his grave in France.

  Six thousand singing canaries were also traveling with us. If one of them got sick the Purser took it to his cabin where it would recuperate. Canaries, we were told, were very much in demand in the States and could enter without visas. Berthold figured that there were 7,637 living creatures aboard. My mathematics were too shaky to check on his calculations. . . .

  We approached New York early in the morning. There was a thick fog and we did not see the famous skyline. A German-speaking publicity man from Fox and three reporters waited for us in the salon. The reporters were starting to interview Berthold when a German girl with bleached hair appeared, loudly announcing that she had been seasick during the crossing. Immediately the reporters turned their backs on Berthold and clicked their cameras while she posed on the arm of a sofa, dangling her legs. We were curious to know who she was and the Fox man told us a name we had never heard before nor afterward. She was under contract to Universal Films.