The Kindness of Strangers

by Salka Viertel

  •

  “Why don’t you write?” Garbo asked me.

  “Because I am not a writer. I am an actress, temporarily unemployed.”

  Berthold agreed with her. He had always encouraged me: “You would bear Hollywood much better if you worked.”

  But his own difficulties were increasing, although The Seven Faces had been well received. His next assignment was a story with a Russian background. While he was struggling with the screenplay we heard that Sergei M. Eisenstein, the creator of Potemkin, had been signed by Paramount for a one-year contract, and suddenly Hollywood seemed less negative.

  As soon as Eisenstein arrived, Upton Sinclair, who had most impressive friends, gave a picnic lunch for him at the ranch of Mr. Gillette, the razorblade millionaire. We drove miles and miles over the winding roads of Topanga Canyon to meet the Soviet artists at the mansion of an American tycoon. When we arrived we found that the doors were locked. The owner was absent and the guests had the use of the garden only.

  We had met Mrs. Sinclair at a tea party in the house of Mrs. Crane-Gartz, a Pasadena millionairess, daughter of the Chicago plumbing magnate who was a great friend and supporter of Upton. There were also other Pasadena ladies present, all elderly and provincial in appearance, with the exception of Mary Miles-Minter, a retired film star, who outshone us all in elegance. The guests of honor stood apart; they were Eisenstein with his two Russian collaborators, Edward Tisse and Gregory Alexandroff, and a young British couple, Ivor and Hell Montagu, friends and translators for the three Russians. Mrs. Sinclair, with the capricious charm of a Southern belle, ordered us to eat immediately as they had waited long enough for Mr. and Mrs. Viertel. The lunch was spread out on the grass under an olive tree and I sat between Eisenstein and Alexandroff. Eisenstein was of middle height, his reddish mane receding above a high forehead. He must have been in his early thirties. The scenario writer Alexandroff, blond and blue-eyed and strikingly handsome, did not speak anything but Russian, so my rusty Ukrainian was of some help. Edward Tisse, the cameraman, was the oldest of the trio and knew a little French. Eisenstein spoke German, French and very good English. Upton welcomed the Russians with one of his jovial, pleasant speeches and Eisenstein thanked him, also in the name of his friends. Then he and I talked in German about Berlin, where I had first seen his films. Berthold was between Upton and Mrs. Crane-Gartz. Suddenly Miss Miles-Minter tapped her glass, demanding attention. Everybody stopped talking. She made a lengthy, confused speech about communism and the Soviets and asked the Russians why they had permitted the execution of the Tsar and his family. It was quite embarrassing.

  Afterward the Eisenstein collective drove to our house and seeing that we lived so near the ocean, they suggested they would pick us up every morning and together we would go for a swim. Tisse took photos of us on the beach and Eisenstein used to say that they were the only film he had made in Hollywood.

  Our circle was enlarged by Berthold’s new secretary-assistant, Fred Zinnemann, a nineteen-year-old Viennese, totally dedicated to films. He and his friend Gunther von Fritsch, another amiable young Austrian, became our daily guests.

  Meanwhile things were not going well in Tahiti. Robert Flaherty withdrew from his collaboration with Murnau and returned to America. Murnau’s self-righteous letters had prepared us for the split-up. From the story Flaherty told us, we gathered that at the outset Murnau shared Flaherty’s ideas; he admired him, but his “boss complex” was too overwhelming. According to Flaherty, influenced by German expressionism, Murnau insisted on using theatrical effects, while he, Flaherty, an anthropologist and explorer, wanted to tell the epic story of the lives, customs and struggles of the peoples he loved. Murnau’s talent, character and background made such patient, prodding work impossible and his and Flaherty’s relationship was doomed once they faced each other in the South Seas.

  People who did not like Murnau used to say that his “cloven hoof” was his real name: Plumpe. To compensate for “Plumpe” he had to be more authoritative, more rigid and more exacting than was his nature. There are professions, such as orchestra conducting, directing, film producing and even teaching, which spoil one’s character, for it is dangerous always to know better.

  In her book Dämonische Leinwand, Lotte H. Eisner maintains that Murnau was the greatest film director Germany ever had. She adds: “All Murnau films bear the stigma of his inner discord; they give evidence of his conflict with an alien world, forever inaccessible to him. Only in Tabu does he find some peace, some happiness, when he lives in the midst of an exuberantly flourishing nature, where European morals and feelings of guilt don’t exist.”

  •

  Eisenstein and his friends wanted to explore the religious and the sinful Los Angeles, and the first stop on our itinerary was Aimée Semple McPherson’s Angelus Temple, which promised to combine both. We were lucky in hitting upon one of Aimée’s most glamorous productions. With a new permanent wave in her blond hair, in a white silk gown, clutching red roses to her heart, she appeared at her pulpit to receive a frenetic ovation from a packed house. Her sermon appealed to the senses. She assured her audience that the Lord is sweet, and made gourmet sounds, tasting Jesus on her tongue—the congregation drooled and smacked their lips. The Russians were delighted.

  The world success of his films did not prevent Eisenstein from suffering the fate of most European directors in Hollywood. The two scenarios he wrote, The Glass House and Sutter’s Gold, are still gathering dust in Paramount’s files. After several months it became obvious that Hollywood had no use for him, and we only wondered why he had been called. As they were about to leave, Upton Sinclair offered to raise money among his wealthy friends so that Eisenstein could make an independent picture in Mexico, because “we hated to see a great artist humiliated.” “The Pasadena Group,” a few elderly ladies, millionairesses, friends of the Sinclairs and Mrs. Crane-Gartz, declared their willingness to invest twenty-five thousand dollars in an Eisenstein film. Berthold tried to convince Eisenstein that this was not enough, but the Russians were sure that, as they would make the film without a studio, they would not need more. What they did not take into account was that Eisenstein’s imagination, stimulated by impressions of a strange and extraordinary country, could never produce a simple documentary.

  He had asked me to be present at the signing of the agreement, and my heart sank when I met his sponsors. With the exception of Upton and Mrs. Crane-Gartz they had no idea who Eisenstein was. I am sure they would have been horrified had they ever seen one of his films.

  The Russians left. In the most optimistic mood we said goodbye to each other; in four months we would meet again.

  Having spent all his money, Murnau returned with a completed film. He moved with his German shepherd dog to the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica, and came every evening to have dinner with us.

  My own recollections of Tabu are blurred, but although Berthold admired it he found certain parts of it disappointing. It was much improved by Murnau’s editing, but as it was a silent film, the question of orchestration became important. We hoped he would use native music, but his agent and other Hollywood people were for a great symphonic score, a last desperate attempt to sell the silent products, which would cost Murnau fifty thousand dollars. However, it was useless to argue, and Berthold not only ceased persuading but loaned him all our savings, to pay an advance to the composer. To make our future more insecure, the situation at Fox had become so unbearable that Berthold had decided to leave. Then one day, when everything and everyone were steeped in gloom, Murnau telephoned me: “Would you and the boys like to take a ride along the coast?”

  I knew that he did not have a car and said: “I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

  “Oh, no you won’t. Tell the boys they’ll have a ride in a Rolls Royce.” His voice sounded triumphant.

  “Murr!” I screamed. “You’ve sold Tabu.”

  He arrived in a gorgeous open car with chauffeur (he had rented it from Tanner’s Liveries) and
off we went along the ocean highway, toward Ventura. The day was dark, the sky as gray as the ocean, but after the rain the hills along the highway had turned green.

  “It won’t be long before the desert will bloom,” said Murr. “I wish I could show it to you.”

  “Why can’t you?” I asked.

  “Because my mother insists that I come home. I have booked a cabin on the Europa for the thirty-first of March. It is the last ship I can take to be in time for the opening of Tabu.” Having bought the film, Paramount also insisted that he see the writer William Morris, who lived in Monterey and had agreed to “novelize” Tabu for a magazine serialization. This was absolutely against Murr’s grain and he dreaded the “South Sea Quatsch” which would emerge, but he had to compromise. “Still, I could not have made such a film in a studio,” he comforted himself.

  Next morning, when I came home from shopping, our housekeeper Jessie told me that Mr. Murnau had stopped by on his way to Monterey. He had a young Polynesian boy with him who had been recommended as a butler-chauffeur. Mr. Murnau would see how he worked out on the trip to Monterey.

  After dinner, as Berthold and I were finishing our coffee, we got a call from the Santa Barbara Morning Post. A reporter said that Murnau had had an automobile accident and was in the Santa Barbara Hospital. His butler had insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Viertel should be notified. Was Murnau badly injured?—Yes—very badly.

  We drove to Santa Barbara with the gloomiest forebodings. The fog was so heavy we could only drive very slowly. On the Gaviotta Pass we passed two mangled wrecks.

  At last we arrived at the hospital. It must have been one o’clock. The distraught Polynesian, dark, lithe and handsome, met us at the entrance and told us what had happened. They had stopped at a gasoline station to refuel; then Murnau ordered him to take the wheel. The hired chauffeur objected: he was not permitted to relinquish the wheel to anybody. But Murnau got so sharp that finally the man obeyed. They had not gone twenty miles when a truck came at them around the curve and the boy swerved to the right, crashing thirty feet down an embankment. Neither he nor the chauffeur were hurt, but Murnau had suffered a bad head injury.

  While Berthold was trying to reach a brain surgeon in Los Angeles, the nurse took me to Murnau. His room was brightly lit and in the center the bed stood, glaring white. His head was bandaged, his eyes closed, and a thin trickle of blood from one nostril drew a red line to the chin. He looked peaceful. At the foot of the bed stood his devoted secretary, Mrs. Kearin. I leaned over and whispered: “Murr . . . can you hear me, Murr?”

  Mrs. Kearin sobbed: “He is gone. He stopped breathing a few minutes ago.”

  I touched his hands. They were still warm and his face had its usual distant expression.

  His body was shipped to New York and left on the Europa on the same day for which he had made his reservation.

  24

  LEO SMITH WAS FOUR YEARS OLDER than Hans. He must have been fourteen. His mother, a squat, stout woman, was the housekeeper for Mr. and Mrs. Garrett who lived at the corner of Mabery Road. Mrs. Smith regularly appeared in the window in her white uniform, when I was passing their house on my way to the beach, loudly announcing to somebody inside: “The foreign woman from up the street!”

  Leo, a rough, blond, dull-looking boy, backward in school, was a classmate of my Peter. Apprehensive about his influence on the boys, Nena prophesied that he would end up in jail before he finished school. Louise Garrett told me that Leo was a good swimmer and good at sports, and she did not expect him to be an intellectual. Neither did I, although I did not like Hans and Peter coming home with bloody knees and elbows and scratched faces after their excursions with Leo. One evening while the Garretts were out, the toolshed in their backyard caught fire. There was a great commotion because for some inexplicable reason their collie had been locked in the shed. Leo rushed into the flames and rescued the dog. All the inhabitants of Mabery Road, among them Hans and Peter, witnessed his heroism. From then on Leo could do no wrong.

  Oliver Garrett was a successful scenario writer at Paramount. Every day he passed our house in a smart convertible, announcing himself by honking the horn, which had a special signal: tateè-tatà, like that of the German ex-Kaiser. “Dashing” was the most suitable adjective for him as he drove by, wearing a French beret. Without the beret he revealed a bald but well-shaped head, which did not diminish his attractiveness. He and his wife were an obviously happy, well-adjusted couple. Both were in their early thirties, intellectually inclined, good tennis players and addicted to parlor games, especially Louise. Coming from respected Boston families, they emphatically tried to adapt their puritanical upbringing to what was still left of the gay and wild Twenties. However, even in the dangerous Truth game, Louise could not bring herself to tell a lie, and truthfully answered the most indiscreet questions. Under my disrupting influence—I loathed parlor games—Oliver became less scrupulous. But all of that happened after Tallulah Bankhead, who introduced the Truth game, arrived in Hollywood and joined our Sunday afternoons.

  At first only Hans and Peter became the intimates of the Garrett household, attracted by the magic of Leo’s “he-mannishness” and Oliver’s sportiness which contrasted strongly with their father’s and my own persistent Europeanism.

  I began to worry about Tommy. A slow talker before he came to America, he still preferred to express himself in pantomime rather than words. Not able to follow the English of his older brothers, he ceased talking altogether and only pointed to things he wanted. I asked a doctor, who examined him and assured me that the boy was healthy, normal and should be sent to a kindergarten. When I took him there, Thomas stood silently in a corner, not participating in games, quietly waiting until it was time to go home, where Nena always received him as if he had just escaped unspeakable danger.

  At that time Professor Alfred Adler, Freud’s revisionist pupil whom Berthold had known in Vienna, came to Los Angeles, and we invited him to dinner. The boys were at the table and also Nena. Tommy was sweet and well-mannered and, as usual, spectacularly silent. After the children said good-night Professor Adler asked me how long Nena had been with us. “She came when Tommy was eight months old,” I said.

  We talked about Nena and I told him how kind and devoted she was. The only thing which worried us was her possessiveness with Tommy, and his slowness in speaking.

  “Why should he talk?” laughed Adler. “She anticipates his wishes before he can even express them. Send her away and you will see that he’ll speak.” I spent a sleepless night, and the next day I had a long talk with Nena, fully aware of the uselessness of it. Stubbornly, she insisted that if Tommy did not chatter like a magpie it was because his brothers always told him to shut up. To her he always said what he wanted. Of course, English bewildered him, but who wouldn’t be bewildered by such a hellish language? How could her love harm Tommy? However, she admitted it would be good if Tommy played with children of his age, preferably German-speaking. The desired companions for Tommy were found, little Mucki Spuhler and her brother Julius, children of a German-Swiss couple Nena had met on the beach. The father, a marble cutter, had been a good provider until the depression had made him jobless. Toni, the mother, was an excellent cook and it was easy for her to find work catering at parties. The friendship between the children turned out to be providential for the parents.

  European directors and actors were flocking to Hollywood, and as the demand for European servants increased, it suddenly occurred to me to transform the dejected, jobless Mr. Spuhler into a butler-chauffeur. I bought a braided cap and showed him how to open and to hold the door for his employers, when to take off and when to put on his cap and, after he had finally remembered everything, I got him a job with the Viennese composer Mr. Richard Fall, brother of the creator of The Divorcee and other successful operettas. A victim of mistaken identity (Fox thought they had signed Leo Fall), Mr. Fall was not happy in Hollywood and so nervous and irritable he could not stand Julius Spuhier’s chauffeuring and fi
red him. At once it occurred to me to recommend Julius to Jacques and Françoise Feyder, who drove themselves. They also hired Toni as housekeeper, and in their spacious house there was even room for the Spuhler children. Much closer now to Mabery Road, they often played with Tommy and the youngest Feyder.

  One evening, as I was about to read to him, Tom unexpectedly broke his silence and said that it was he who wanted to tell me a story. Slowly he began: “Once upon a time there was a boy and his name was Unhappy. . . .” He said it in German: “Sein Name war Unglücklich.” My heart stood still.

  “That’s not a name, Tommy.”

  “Sein Name war Unglücklich,” he persisted, his dark, serious eyes anxiously looking into mine. “He had two brothers and their names were Hans and Peter.”

  I was holding back my tears. Did he know what he was saying? Was this the contented, cheerful little boy who adored his nurse, his brothers, his parents, Jessie . . . ate well, slept well, but—“Sein Name war Unglücklich. . . .”

  I braced myself for decisive action. Perhaps Adler was right—we had to part with Nena, at least for a while. Her Visitor’s Visa was expiring and she would have had to leave the States anyway. We would see how her absence affected Thomas. Besides we would be back in Berlin in a year. We were quite sure of that.