But suddenly he became fascinated with the Indians and visited the Reservation as often as he could.
From Hollywood I reported:
I have enrolled the boys in school. Masses of children, all with numbers, were waiting to be called. Ours was Number One Hundred and Eleven, and resignedly we sat and waited our turn. The boys were in a fever, worried they would be put into the lowest grade, with “children who don’t know the alphabet.” Emma, who had come with us, kept her fingers crossed and was as excited as Hans and Peter. Finally we were called and after a few brief questions Hans was assigned to the second grade, Peter to the lower second. But already after lunch, Hans was promoted to the third, having answered the question: “How was your summer vacation?” with the account of his trip from Europe to California, all in English. The teacher, a woman, was “thrilled” with his description and you can imagine how proud I was. After only three months in America it is very impressive. I don’t know whom we have to thank: the teacher, Mr. Schumacher, or Emma and De Witt. Peter also returned very enthusiastic about the school and his teacher: “She speaks very slowly and I understand every word she says.”
The harvest in Pendleton was brought in on celluloid, and Berthold and I met in San Francisco for a brief holiday.
One evening Murnau asked us if we wanted to see an extraordinary film he was running in the projection room. When we arrived he introduced Robert Flaherty, explorer and film maker, a stoutish gentleman of indefinite age, with very blue eyes. We were to see Moana, a film Flaherty had shot in Samoa. Moana was a poetic and touching document about Polynesian life and had a deep effect on Murnau. It strengthened his conviction that a dedicated film maker could not express himself in a Hollywood studio, and he and Flaherty decided to embark on an independent venture in Tahiti. There were long discussions with Berthold about the story Flaherty had suggested and which they intended to do. We supported the whole project enthusiastically; with the collaboration of Flaherty it could not fail.
Walter Spiess, who had run away from Europe and civilization, wrote delirious letters from Bali. He had found his “own heavenly spot on the globe” and had built a house there. He invited us to come to Bali with our boys, live in his house, forget films, theater, Berlin, America, everything.
There are fifty monkeys in the Waringia tree in front of my house, I feed them raisin bread. Deer and crocodiles, parrots and marten abound and everything reminds you of Adam and Eve. For you, Salka, and Berthold, there are actors and theater, marvelous dancers and music like nowhere in the whole world. The loveliest and most musical music! [And as his strongest persuasion he added:] It would be great if you came. Probably I’ll hang myself out of sheer joy. Your loving—Valjka.
A voyage to Bali was to culminate Murnau’s South Seas adventure. Of course, he could not travel like an ordinary person; it had to be daring and adventurous. He bought a slim, lovely yacht and named it Bali, thus indicating her final destination.
The rainy season started at Christmas; everything became lush and green. Afterward the orange trees blossomed, and in April roses burst out in fantastic profusion. I sat in the garden reading Upton Sinclair’s Boston. I don’t remember where Berthold had met Sinclair, but that evening he brought him for dinner (Mrs. Sinclair was not feeling well and stayed at home in Pasadena ). It was a wonderful occasion to express my gratitude for the book, which had deeply moved me.
Sinclair was lean and held himself very erect, with a clean-cut Yankee face. As Prohibition was generally disregarded, I put a bottle of a harmless Chilean riesling on the table. With a disapproving look Sinclair turned his glass upside down and of course none of us dared to drink a drop. But our great respect pleased him. In spite of his egocentricity and puritanism, he had humor and was a very likeable man.
•
At last I got Berthold’s consent to rent a beach house, “but only for the summer,” and drove to Santa Monica.
At the corner of Seventh Street and San Vicente Boulevard, a road led down to the beach. It had rained in the morning and small white clouds hung above the ocean, which was covered with whitecaps. The breeze brought the scent of orange blossoms. On my left was a road winding uphill, on my right shacks and adobe huts and lots overgrown with weeds and geraniums. I faced a clapboard schoolhouse, small and rural, on which the roads seemed to converge. Children, mostly Mexicans, played on the slides and swings of the recreation ground. All this was peaceful and quiet: old sycamores and gnarled oaks, a swollen brook which rushed toward the ocean, dividing the road into two lanes, both leading to the Ocean Highway. I remembered having seen somewhere a billboard advertising a real estate office.
I found it next to “Inspiration Point,” where Palisades Park ended and Ocean Avenue began to descend toward the canyon. A young man, tall and dark, introduced himself as Mr. Guercio and offered to show me several houses. One, suitable for a large family, was right below, though not directly on the beach.
We drove down a short, winding road overlooking the ocean, and stopped in front of a large, fenced-in house in the so-called English style. Two pine trees grew on each side of the entrance; next to them a magnolia spread its glossy leaves and enormous white blossoms. The fence was overgrown with honeysuckle, entangled with pink Portugal roses. The air was suffused with fragrance.
To get to the beach we had only to walk to the end of the street and descend the steps to a tunnel under the highway.
Mr. Guercio opened the front door and we went in. The first floor consisted of a very vast living room with a fireplace and a dining area. It had eight windows and a glass door which opened into the garden. A staircase between the dining area and living room led to the bedrooms; they also were spacious and had a view of the ocean. There were plenty of bathrooms and showers, and servants’ quarters next to the garage. In the garden grew a pitasphorum tree and the inevitable hibiscus bushes, also an apricot and fig tree. At the far end an old incinerator tried to hide behind a lonely, bedraggled lilac bush. Mr. Guercio said that the lilac never bloomed, but this did not shatter my hope that one day it would, and it increased my desire to take the house. The rent was $900 for the three summer months but, if we wanted to take it for a whole year, it would be proportionately less. The house was in receivership, owned by a bank in Santa Monica. The bank was obviously responsible for the atrocious furniture, the armchairs and sofa covered with black velvet which faced the fireplace, and the shabby rattan garden chairs filling the rest of the room. The bedrooms were less offensive as they had only the essential things. From the windows one could see the ocean and the sharp profile of the hills on the other side of the canyon, and I could hear the waves pounding the shore.
I showed Berthold the house. He liked it, and in June, after Hans and Peter had finished school, we cut ourselves off from Hollywood and moved to 165 Mabery Road.
23
BERTHOLD’S FIRST DIRECTORIAL ASSIGNMENT was the last silent film Fox produced, and all I remember is that Françoise Rosay played a veiled Arab woman in it; it was her debut as a film actress. During the shooting, the studio picked up Berthold’s option and doubled his salary. It seems strange now that under these advantageous auspices we kept prolonging our Visitors’ Permits and did not apply for Immigration Visas. But Camil Hoffmann, Erich Engel, Francesco, Elisabeth, all our friends, were awaiting our return. Our families also did not wish us to settle in America.
We kept the house for another year. The beach had been an unending source of happiness to us; the boys were brown and strong and had become good swimmers. They had made friends with the Mexican children in the Canyon and when we addressed them in German they answered in English. The two older ones had outgrown Nena’s authority and, much to my distress, she concentrated her possessiveness on Tommy, making him very dependent on her.
Meanwhile Murnau had been rigging out his Bali for the voyage to the South Pacific. He had a crew of seven, which we thought quite a crowd for the small boat. At last he was ready and we went to the harbor to bid him farewe
ll. Bob Flaherty was to leave a few weeks later on a mail steamer. I gave Murnau two pounds of Malosol caviar, which moved him to tears. He stood on deck waving, while we waved back until he disappeared from view. We knew we would miss him. The next to say good-bye to Hollywood were Emil and Gussy Jannings.
Contrary to predictions, moving to Santa Monica did not impair our social life. On the contrary, our Sunday afternoons became very popular. The living room had become more attractive after I had hidden the black velvet under slipcovers and bought shelves for our books, which had arrived from Berlin. A rented piano, plants and flowers accomplished the rest.
Dramatists, novelists and newspapermen were now being summoned to Hollywood to write scenarios for the Talkies, and Berthold hoped for better scripts. However, the main topic discussed among his co-workers was the stock market. We listened wide-eyed to the miraculous rise of A.T.&T. or some other capitalized initials. Someone had assured Berthold that the stock broker at the First National Bank of Beverly Hills was “a wizard” and the wizard advised him to take advantage of the executives’ offer and buy shares in the Fox Theater Corporation. They had climbed to twenty-five dollars a share and were sure to double in value. Berthold’s determination to become a capitalist astonished me, but the Truppe debts had been paid and the Fox theaters seemed solidly built, until I saw the huge headlines, “Fox Theater Shares down to. . . .” I don’t remember what, but it was practically nothing.
I comforted Berthold. We still had some money left for the trip back to Europe and our rent was now reduced to a hundred and fifty dollars a month.
A New York actor, Paul Muni, was to star in Berthold’s next film. He and Bela, his wife, young and enthusiastically dedicated to the theater, used to reminisce nostalgically about the Yiddish Ensemble with which they grew up and where Muni had his first successes. In the film Berthold was making, The Seven Faces, Muni had ample opportunity for chameleon-like changes of characterization—he played a caretaker in a waxworks museum and also seven of the figures which come to life, among them Napoleon and Jack the Ripper. Catherine the Great also appeared in the film and George Middleton, who was supervising the production, suggested that I should play her. The experience did not make me wish to become a movie actress. Acting in fragments is like drinking from an eyedropper when you are parched.
George Middleton, tall, lumbering and fiftyish, had fond memories of the war and the years he had spent in France. He loved Europeans. His charming, ash-blond wife, Fola, was the daughter of the late Senator Robert M. La Follette, founder of the Progressive Republican League who, with Senator Borah, had opposed America’s entry into the War. She was most sympathetic to our unwavering pacificism, and she spoke French, which was very helpful when my English faltered. She loved the theater and the many pleasant hours I spent with her helped me to overcome my homesickness. Through Fola I met people outside the film world. One of them was the exotic, delicate Mrs. Francis Bitter. An Englishwoman, she was born and raised in India until she married a young physicist from the California Institute of Technology. She was a musician and as “Ratan Devi” gave recitals, singing classical Indian songs and playing the sitar. Fola and Ratan Devi were the only people who insisted on improving my English. All our other American friends protested indignantly, when I attempted to speak correctly, “Oh, for heaven sakes don’t lose that charming accent,” or “It doesn’t matter that you don’t say it right, it sounds cute.” I suppose that this American kindness toward foreigners is one of the reasons for their own bad diction and lazy speech. For hours, with a truly oriental patience, Ratan Devi let me read aloud David Copperfield, George Moore’s Esther Waters and other English novels, correcting my pronunciation.
Europeans were descending en masse upon Hollywood—to write, to report or to act in films. Among them were William Dieterle and his wife Charlotte, Charles Boyer, whom we had admired in Berlin in a play by Henri Bernstein (actresses and actors from France and Germany were imported by the studios, which now began to produce films in foreign languages). I had last seen Dieterle as the roaring Danton in Reinhardt’s production of the Büchner play in the great Schauspielhaus. He still looked like a leading man, but had abandoned acting for directing films. Warner Brothers signed him for the German versions of their products.
Professor Albert Einstein came as the guest of Caltech, taking the long route through the Panama Canal, and thousands of school children, in white and carrying flowers, stood on the docks of San Pedro chanting their welcome. Berthold had known Einstein in Berlin and we were very pleased when Mrs. Einstein asked us to a quiet family dinner. Only two other people were present, his assistant, and their son-in-law. It was the most effortless and gayest evening I have ever spent in the presence of a great man. We laughed a lot as anecdote followed anecdote, and I regret that I don’t remember even one. We met again on other occasions but never so intimately and informally. When his stay in California came to an end, we drove to Pasadena to see him off. The station was teeming with thousands and thousands of people; it was impossible to get through to the Einsteins. Only under police escort could they board the train. By good luck Mrs. Einstein caught sight of us and asked a policeman to clear the way, so that we could say good-bye. After the train had left and the crowd was dispersing, a tiny, determined old lady stopped us and asked Berthold if he was related to Professor Einstein. “No, not at all,” Berthold informed her hurriedly, but she held onto him.
“I thought you were, because you have such a remarkable head.”
“Thank you,” he said, a little friendlier.
“I want to shake hands with you,” she went on, disregarding the jostling and pushing of the people around us, “because I saw you shaking Professor Einstein’s hand.” Turning to me she added: “And I want to shake yours too!”
We shook hands and then Berthold tried to get away. But I was curious why she had come to see Einstein. My question baffled her: “Well, I don’t know. . . .”
“Are you interested in science?” I asked.
“Oh, is he a Christian Scientist?” she exclaimed, delighted.
“No,” I said quickly. “He is a physicist, didn’t you know?”
Beaming, she said: “Oh, my dear lady, I don’t care what he does. He must surely be a wonderful man when so many people turn out to say good-bye to him. . . .”
•
One day Mrs. Lubitsch called me to say she was giving a “black-tie party” in honor of a visiting German film star. Forty “prominent” people were invited. The film star’s husband was a German producer Berthold had known in Berlin, and out of nostalgia he said we should accept.
As was common in Hollywood, beautiful women were clustered in one corner of the room, while the men talked shop in the other. Jacques Feyder remained of course with the ladies; Françoise was not there as she had gone to Paris for a few weeks. He greeted me and led me to a couch, on which, next to the German star, whose billowing skirt was taking practically all the space, sat Greta Garbo. She was the only woman who wore an austere black suit and not evening dress. As the German star refused to subdue her flounces, there was no room for me on the couch, and we went out to the veranda, leaving her enthroned in her splendor. The night was chilly. Only a few hardy characters were sitting outside. Feyder secured a bottle of champagne and the three of us spent the rest of the evening in a highly animated mood.
Books have been written about Garbo’s beauty, “mystery” and talent; her films, constantly reissued, confirm her magic. There is something unexpected in the loveliness of this face; it is always as if one were seeing it for the first time. She was then at the peak of her success, the critics comparing her to Duse and Sarah Bernhardt. Fans and reporters pursued her with such persistence that protecting her privacy became an obsession. This of course was exploited by publicity as the saga of her “mystery.” Oddly, when I met her I had not seen any of her films, with the exception of Gösta Berling. We talked about its première in Berlin; then she asked about my work in the theater. Sh
e was intelligent, simple, completely without pose, with a great sense of humor, joking about her inadequate German and English, although she expressed herself very well. Berthold joined us and we talked until late, while Feyder kept refilling our glasses.
The next day we had just finished lunch, when the doorbell rang and in the open window of the entrance appeared the unforgettable face. In the bright daylight she was even more beautiful. She wore no make-up, not even powder, only the famous long eyelashes were thoroughly blackened with mascara. Her fine skin had a childlike smoothness; the slender hands were sunburned, and contrary to her reputation I found her well dressed: the slacks and shirtwaist were beautifully cut and well-fitting. Gaily she announced that she had come to continue the conversation of last night, and stayed all afternoon. We went for a short walk on the beach and then sat in my room. She told me she was pleased that I had only seen her in Gösta Berling, as she did not care much for her other films. She was very funny, caricaturing the repetitiousness of the seduction techniques.
She lived not far from us, and in the evening Berthold and I walked her home. After we had said good-night to her, we exchanged our impressions. What had charmed us was her great politeness and attentiveness. She seemed hypersensitive, although of a steely resilience. The observations she made about people were very just, sharp and objective. “Probably all that fame prevents her from living her real life,” I said.
“It’s a high price to pay,” said Berthold.
She came very often early in the morning when the beach was deserted, and we took long walks together.
In those first years in California I don’t think I met anyone who had been born or raised there. The actors and writers, especially those from the East, were transitory, having come to make money and to get out as soon as possible. I also was counting the days till our return to Europe. I became aware that we were constantly explaining ourselves to our American friends, trying to convey our identity and what really possessed us, who we were. Berthold’s futile efforts to communicate made me unhappy and I hated when he touched upon matters which I knew his new associates would not understand. Of course there were exceptions, but for a man so erudite and creative in his own language, it was torture to confine himself to the primitive vocabulary of Mr. Wurtzel, and escaping to the men’s room to read Kant and Kierkegaard was small relief. The only comfort was the sight of the sea and the happiness of our sons, who had become dedicated Californians.
The Kindness of Strangers Page 20