How hard and bare all these years would have been for her without the reunions with her adored son! Any kind of small pleasure or luxury had ceased to exist. When my sister sent a little box of oranges and bananas, Polish customs officials refused to forward it, declaring that it was forbidden to import “tropical” fruit. “You lucky people can pick your lemons and oranges from the trees,” wrote Mama. But when she read an interview with a Viennese author, who said that the fruit in California tasted like wood-shavings, she was alarmed and offered to supply us with apples from the orchard at home.
I remember that on February 18 Berthold had returned from New York, and that it was my father’s eighty-second birthday. But the next day a cable told us that my father had died on February 17. I knew that he had been ill at the beginning of the year, and Berthold had promised me that in summer he would stay with the children so that I could visit my parents. Papa had recovered and my mother wrote that he had been well and working. On the 17th after lunch, he went to his room and she heard him fall. She rushed in and found him on the floor. “It’s nothing,” he said, “just a dizzy spell.” An hour later he was dead.
He bequeathed whatever was left of his property to my mother, confident that “in our family there could never be a dispute over money,” and he recommended to all of us the care and education of Viktoria.
The Polish press published eulogies and obituaries, which praised him as an outstanding citizen and a great lawyer. “He had ennobled the profession.” It was the last time, in Pilsudski’s Poland, that Gentiles and Jews would mourn together.
For my mother, the year abounded in unhappiness. Aunt Bella finally gave up her struggle with cinema owners and lovers, and defeated, dying of cancer, she fled to Wychylowka. For days and nights Dusko took care of her. His compassion was so great that he suppressed his horror of disease.
Berthold’s contract with Paramount was not renewed. Ben Schulberg had left the studio and was preparing an independent production. He wanted Berthold to direct some of his films, but the negotiations were conducted half-heartedly.
Our Visitors’ Visas had expired and we had to apply for an Immigration Quota: Berthold and Tommy for an Austrian number, Hans and Peter, who were born in Dresden, for a German one, and I for a Polish. After much red tape and hundreds of dollars spent on cables and lawyers, we finally had the necessary documents assembled, and took off in our big, second-hand Cadillac for Ensenada in Baja California, about one hundred miles south of San Diego.
Immediately beyond the Mexican border the landscape changed, the people looked like Ukrainian peasants, in straw hats and long shirts. Even the roads were in the well-remembered condition. But the old Cadillac drove like a jeep. They don’t make them like that anymore!
It was late when we arrived in Ensenada, at an ostentatious hotel with a gambling casino, which Jack Dempsey had built for the tycoons of Southern California. It was planned as an American Monte Carlo and an escape from Prohibition. But the Depression had put a damper on the gay life and the establishment went bankrupt. We were the only guests in the hotel. Before our windows a long sickle of soft, silvery sand hugged the bluest, most serene ocean.
We went to the American Consulate and the Consul told us that it would take a few days, perhaps a week, until our various quota numbers arrived. We had books and magazines with us, and our worries and uncertainties to keep us from being bored. However, after three days, in spite of the beautiful beach and all its space, the empty hotel gave us claustrophobia. The gloomy gambling salons with the sheet-covered roulette and baccarat tables reminded us of a morgue.
Finally our quota numbers arrived and we could leave. The roads had dried, the bridges were flimsily repaired and, just as it was getting dark, we presented our passports to a disgruntled immigration officer and were admitted to the United States.
•
It was not long after our immigration that Garbo signed a new contract with Metro. She surprised me one morning by unexpectedly taking me to a Santa Monica beach house, where a frail-looking, black-haired young man greeted us at the door. With his fine oriental features, his slender delicate hands and soft, dark eyes, he reminded me of Max Reinhardt’s brother Edmund. “This is Mr. Thalberg,” said Garbo.
“I’ve heard wonderful things about you,” he said to me.
I could not think of anything to say, only that I also had heard a great deal about him.
“Of course you have,” Garbo coached me pointedly.
I did not know that she had shown him the manuscript of Queen Christina. Although he did not “believe in historical films and the story was far from perfect,” Mr. Thalberg was interested. It needed, of course, a great deal of work. He intended to give it his personal attention. When I asked why he “did not believe in historical films,” he gave me an evasive answer, and I had the impression that he had not read the manuscript—only skimmed through the first pages.
“There are several things I like. I would not produce it if I did not think it would make a great picture.”
How often in the following years did I hear that phrase!
Calmly Greta said that she had great faith in the story.
“I am always open to new ideas and new talent,” Thalberg assured her. “I will be in touch with Mrs. Viertel and get her an experienced collaborator.”
I replied that I would like to work with Peg Le Vino, but he interrupted me: “I know Mrs. Le Vino. She is a fine woman but not the person I want on the screenplay.” All my arguments were cut short. Miss Shearer, his wife, came into the room and asked us to stay for lunch, but Greta excused us and we said good-bye. Thalberg promised again that Queen Christina would be a great picture.
All this had happened suddenly and was a complete surprise to me, but also a disappointment. We had always planned that the film would be made in Europe. I had ardently hoped for it, and my first impression of Thalberg was rather negative. Greta tried to comfort me saying that, after all, Metro was the best studio, Thalberg the most capable producer to deal with, and that for technical reasons it would be difficult to make Christina in Europe. She was sure that my “talent and enthusiasm” could defeat Metro’s commercialism.
Having taken a decision, Garbo was usually in a hurry to get away. My introduction to Thalberg took place only a few days before she left for Sweden. She had not been home for many years, and no one could better understand her impatience than I. She told me that her agent, Mr. Eddington, would help me with my negotiations with MGM.
I had never been able to persuade Garbo to meet Peg Le Vino. Familiar with all stages of the story, she maintained that Peg’s contribution had not been important.
In July Berthold decided to go to Europe. Alexander Korda was launching a large-scale British production and wanted to meet him in Paris to discuss future projects. Then Berthold intended to go to Vienna to see his desperately ill father.
We said farewell in Pasadena, promising each other that the separation would not be long. He was sailing on the Europa.
The crossing is coming happily to an end. The day after tomorrow at eight o’clock in the morning I’ll be in Cherbourg. The boat is marvelous, one hardly feels that it moves! Lots of space, air and light. Deadly boring though. On the deck the dullest assembly of rich mummies stiffly tacked to their chairs, while below in the second class Polish Jews are tearing themselves apart in fanatic discussion. They wrench their hearts out convincing each other; they beg, threaten, despair when the other does not understand quickly enough, does not believe, does not agree. Standing on the upper deck you can see their gestures, but can’t hear what they say because the ocean drowns the sound. If you could see them you would forgive me my arguments with Oliver, and understand that one remains what one is, even when one has been “elevated” into the first class.
My dear heart, have you read about the terrible events in Germany? Five Prussian ministers had been thrown out, the last of the so-called Liberals, Braun, dismissed while on leave of absence, the Ministers of
Police and of the Interior arrested because they doubted the legality of the procedure. Von Papen is master of Prussia. In Locarno, at the mere sight of his mug, England and France united to form a new European hegemony. This may be our relative salvation.
Salka, you cannot imagine anything more hideous than the metamorphosis of George Grosz. With beastly doggedness he was telling me for hours that he only believes in the most brutal personal self-interest and ruthless egoism; everything else is a fraud, a swindle invented by Jews and foreigners. Millions of poor devils always existed and always will, and they have to obey and nothing else. “Hitler is greater than Lenin because he openly says that the masses have to take orders.” And so he ranted. I am sure he has gone through lousy times, terrible disappointments, and in his bitterness he snarled and growled. But the hideousness of his fury, the babbittry, this subservient heel-clicking before those who have power! He wants to immigrate to America with wife and child, and no Jews and idealists will influence him any longer. He is making a clean break with all that, and for good.
I know that he is a hunted man, worn out . . . He kept me for hours, forcing me to listen to him until I could not stand it any longer and spat all my painful disgust, like a hemorrhage, into his face. I couldn’t help it. I am not a politician, not a Leninist, not a Bolshevist, but this ultimatum of betrayal, this determination to recant, this jump from a “Left-wing European” to Ku Klux Klan was too horrifying. Perhaps it was a necessary prelude to my return. He warned me: “Wait, only wait . . . you will see what you find. About turn! Away from Europe—run—this is all I can advise you to do.”
And we, Salka, you and I, have prepared for our return by signing protests and manifestos for Ossietzki, a “condemned traitor.” They won’t help; everything will remain just a piece of paper. . . .
Perhaps it was wrong to leave Hollywood without a contract, and I will be relieved when you sign yours. I am sceptical about working in Berlin. I suspect there are no possibilities in Vienna, but one should live there or in Switzerland. London would be the best, provided that we can work and earn dollars or pounds. Everyone says it’s very expensive.
The only bearable people on the boat are the Americans: sociable, helpful, friendly, child-like, and once you know and understand them you feel at ease. Even my mediocre Ping-Pong makes me one of them. They watch the game; old ladies bend and pick up the balls. My heart stops when I think that Hans, Peter and Tommy, so trusting and open-hearted, should be exposed to the beastliness in Germany. I am afraid that the closer I come to Europe the more I begin to resemble Grosz. Such are life’s dialectics working in contrast. Why am I a weaver of thoughts, a Geistmacher—and lately an illusion-fixer? Why am I thrown, a Jewish agitator, into the ferment of spiritual values?
My dearest heart, I will soon see your mother, Rose, Edward and their children. I fear for my father and I am not sure if I should go to Berlin. But this will be decided later. Life will decide—the events will decide, everything goes on as it has to. Soon we shall be together. Take care of yourself; live as it is necessary for you, as you feel you must. . . .
This letter crossed with mine of August 7, 1932:
. . . Today is Tommy’s birthday. I could not fulfill his main wish and give him a baby sister. But yesterday he had a big party with his school friends and, of course, his beloved Mucki and Julius Spuhler. It was a great success. He got a bicycle and a young kitten, so he had what he wanted, except his main wish—but such is life. He was holding the cat in his arms and his voice almost broke. He kept repeating: “My own kitty! My own.” Today they are all at the Olympic Stadium watching the water polo and I am alone at home writing to you.
Greta was two days on the high seas when Mr. Thalberg decided to talk to me. I went to the studio with Eddington. I had not seen Thalberg for several weeks and was shocked how thin and pale he looked. At first he was very pleasant; then the following conversation ensued:
Thalberg: “Well, we have to start working. What arrangements would you suggest?”
I (advised by Eddington) : “I leave it to you, Mr. Thalberg.”
He: “We want very much to have you here with us and I think it best you join MGM on a weekly salary.”
I: “As you know, I have collaborated with Mrs. Le Vino. The studio should first make a deal with both of us and buy the story!”
A long pause, then—
He (charmingly, à la Lindemann): “But there is nothing to buy. You have no copyright. Anybody can come and write a story on a historical subject.”
I looked at him speechless.
“You told me yourself,” he went on, “that you intended to make changes. Still, I want to be fair. We will pay you a thousand dollars now and four thousand when the script is finished.”
I: “No, Mr. Thalberg, you know very well that this is not an adequate compensation for a story which demanded a great deal of work and research.”
With that I said goodbye and left.
I was really shocked when he said that anybody could write a story about a historical subject.
Next day Eddington called me to say that Thalberg was furious but wanted to talk to me. Coached by Oliver I answered that I could not discuss business, that Mr. Thalberg was a charming and fascinating man and that I would talk to him about everything in the world, but not about money. Besides Mr. Thalberg was mistaken: the story is not in public domain; it is an original, based on a historical character, and he himself had said that it was an ideal role for Miss Garbo.
I had asked Beilenson* and he advised me that $10,000 would be a normal price for a 90-page story. Well, we shall see what happens. It would be wonderful if we could leave our pitiful savings intact for a while.
All during that ordeal I was thinking of you, Berthold. My first encounter with the world of film business made me feel very apologetic towards you! But if they don’t throw me out, I hope I will learn to cope with it.
I envy you! You’ll see your father and sisters, Edward, Rose, Mama, while I have Thalberg weighing upon me, even in my dreams! If only I knew how to be “tough.” He had waited until Garbo was gone to tell me that I did not have a copyright and that he did not have to buy the story. But why didn’t I think of a copyright?! Beilenson says they cannot steal it. Everything will be decided before this letter is in your hands, in any case you will have my telegram. Now I am waiting. All I do is wait: for your letters—Thalberg’s decision. Françoise is here because of some business and we see each other everyday. She met Tallulah and it was very funny. I don’t think they took to each other. I also had invited Vicki Baum that evening, but no one could talk, because Tallulah drowned all conversation with her torrents of self-glorification. The Lerts live near the Canyon, and Hans and Peter have become very close friends with their two sons, who are intelligent and have excellent manners. Leo’s influence is diminishing . . .
After an armistice of a few days, Thalberg offered $7,500 for the story, and Peg said we should accept. We signed a contract and each of us got $3,750. Hollywood rumors made it $37,500.
Two days later a story conference took place in Thalberg’s office and he introduced me to Bess Meredyth, a jolly blond, pinkfaced, “all dimples and curves,” whom I had met before at parties. She was one of the most highly paid writers at Metro, the author of the much praised screenplay for Ben Hur, which I was ashamed to admit I had never seen. The other person in the room was Mr. Paul Bern, a short, restless man, obviously devoted to Thalberg, but arrogant and pretentious with me. He was married to the famous Jean Harlow.
Now that he had bought Christina, Thalberg surprisingly voiced his liking for historical films, while Bern expressed the identical criticism and doubts I had heard before from Thalberg. Bess Meredyth sat there, a pink-and-white buddha, smiling and saying nothing. I listened to what could almost be called a lecture from Thalberg, interrupted now and then by Bern’s exclamations: “Marvelous, Irving,” “I see! Now it certainly makes sense! Now it becomes an important film . . .” etc., etc. Another small,
well-dressed man slipped into the room and sat down quietly, nodding to what Thalberg was saying: the film had to be “daring” and “human,” not a pageant, the characters, unusual. However, it should be possible for the audiences to identify with them.
This dogma of “audience identification” was familiar to me from Berthold’s days at Fox.
“All the audience wants is a good love story,” said the nodding gentleman. I mentioned that Christina was not an ordinary woman and was besieged by many difficult problems. For a moment Thalberg looked pensive. “That’s fine, but how will you dramatize that without making it talkative and dull?” I began to describe the incidents. They were in the treatment, but my instinct told me that it would be a serious mistake to mention it. Everything had to be reinvented at the conference, preferably by the producer. My suggestions were pure theater, and as Thalberg was a showman, he listened attentive and amused. Several times Bess Meredyth said: “That sounds interesting.”
Finally Thalberg’s secretary reminded him that people were waiting for him on the stage. I was leaving with the others when he called me back. He was standing behind his huge desk pondering; then he raised his head and said: “Well, don’t you want to sign with us?”
“Very much, Mr. Thalberg, if you don’t expect me to say yes all the time.”
He laughed. “You had a very bad entrée, but if I were not sure that you will be an asset to the studio I would not make you an offer. We need talent, but talent needs us too. You have no experience and I want you to work with Bess Meredyth. She has written great films.”
Then abruptly he asked if I had seen the German film Mädchen im Uniform, a great success in Europe and New York. It had been directed by a woman, my former colleague at the Neue Wiener Bühne, Leontine Sagan, and dealt with a lesbian relationship. Thalberg asked: “Does not Christina’s affection for her lady-in-waiting indicate something like that?” He wanted me to “keep it in mind,” and perhaps if “handled with taste it would give us very interesting scenes.” Pleasantly surprised by his broadmindedness, I began to like him very much and went to the legal department to sign my contract. MGM paid me three hundred and fifty a week on a week-to-week basis. I refused to commit myself for a long term before I knew the result of Berthold’s European negotiations.
The Kindness of Strangers Page 24