I was extremely nervous and anxious about Broch’s verdict. After he finished reading he invited me for lunch, which was scrupulously prepared according to my diet. Then he told me what he thought of my manuscript. I am afraid that by repeating it to you I’ll make it impossible for myself to finish the book. Bad criticism is dangerous, but great praise also. He said—and I hardly dare to repeat it—“This book belongs to the two or three most important literary works in the German language.” He offered me his publishing house, the Rhein Verlag, which also publishes Joyce. In the first moment I was full of superstitious fear, then immediately I wanted to tell it to you. Now I have to overcome my self-consciousness and work on the novel. To finish it is more difficult than to begin. But to complete everything I have started is the gigantic task of my old age.
Old age was still far off and the next letter said:
When I think that it took me five days to write my essay: “Lindbergh, Garbo and the Press,” and I got 120 marks for it, which won’t pay my bill in the sanatorium, I am tempted to accept the offer from Europa Film to write and direct Little Man What Now. You know Fallada’s book about the German jobless? It would make an important, wonderful film. Still there are difficulties with my “contingent status” (working permit), because I am an Austrian and lived the last four years in America. The authorities claim that there is no “cultural necessity” for my working in Germany. In view of my artistic past this aroused great indignation, and many people like Herbert Ihering‡ and Eric Engel protested.
Apparently the authorities reconsidered, and having finished his cure Berthold went to Berlin. He arrived on January 31 when the headlines were announcing Hitler’s ascent to power. Immediately Europa Film assigned the non-Jew, Mr. Wendhausen, as codirector and cut Berthold’s salary. A decent man, Wendhausen was embarrassed and sympathetic. For inexplicable reasons the firm was holding Berthold to his commitment, also Kurt Weill, who was to write the music, and the set-designer Kaspar Neher. For Berthold this was a compelling experience, similar to having been in the war. And he enjoyed working with Neher and Weill.
We are firmly holding together, which is our only salvation, as the producer, a blond, blue-eyed giant, is outdoing himself to please the new regime and wants to impose upon us the corniest, slimiest “kitsch.” Perhaps it is sheer madness to do this film in such times. You have read the novel and know its social theme. [I had, and it was sheer madness!] Of course, I have made it very clear to the gentlemen of Europa Film that as an unredeemable Jew and Austrian, I am willing to step out, even after they have signed my contract. But although I am sure my name won’t appear on the film, they have no intention of letting me go.
I was desperate; I knew that Berthold was in danger, not only as a Jew but also because of his public statements, his contributions to the Weltbuehne, his friendship with Karl Kraus, his opposition to everything the Germans now so overwhelmingly and enthusiastically embraced. I cabled him to break his contract and to leave immediately.
He answered that Europa Film insisted that he finish the screenplay, otherwise they would not pay him. Finally the Reichstag fire made him leave Berlin. In Prague, where he stopped on his way to Vienna, there were other fugitives: Thomas Mann and his brother Heinrich, Bertolt Brecht, Arnold Zweig, Alfred Polgar, Kurt Weill . . . all expurgated from the culture of the Third Reich.
April 11, 1933
Dear Berthold,
I hoped that you had decided to finish your novel in Santa Monica. Instead you went to Berlin to write the screenplay of Little Man What Now. Hitler interfered and now you feel like abandoning your novel too. Hitler is the triumph of the German Spiesser and we will live to see his downfall. Russia and America will destroy him. Your books will appear in English. An American poet I met, Sam Hoffenstein, wants to translate your poems.
I understand that the film was very important to you. After years of compromise you had the opportunity to do something worthwhile. It was not to be. Now I cannot leave my work here. After fantastic difficulties I have managed to establish myself and gain respect from my collaborators, with the exception of Vajda.
You reproach me for not saying more about the earthquake. Well, the papers exaggerated terribly, but I admit that it was very frightening. All during the night the tremors continued at irregular intervals. We had the radio on and heard of the catastrophe in Long Beach, with all those dead. Our telephone was out of order and Oliver, who was at a meeting in Hollywood, stopped by on his way home to see if we were all right. In the morning I discovered that the chimney had moved about three feet from the house, one could walk in between. Otherwise there is not much damage, a few cracks in the walls and in the bedroom ceilings. That’s all.
Now other news: because of the fifty percent cut in their salaries the writers are organizing a Screen Writers Guild and the producers are furious. But there are many, like Mr. Vajda, who say that we are not laborers to be in a union, and call us all “Bolsheviks.” This sounds familiar doesn’t it?
Our sons are wonderful. They discuss things openly, are free, uncramped and well-informed. I want them to become Americans and I have taken out my first papers. And if you don’t come back to the States within a year your visa becomes invalid. Don’t forget it. The boys plead that we should buy a farm. Perhaps they are right. In case our film careers collapse we would have a piece of land and grow our own spinach.
Dearest Berthold, in spite of temporary infatuations which have nothing to do with our belonging to each other, you are the love of my life.
The “aristocrat” Roosevelt began his presidency with sweeping “socialistic” legislation, and with an overwhelming majority the Congress voted the radical measures against further economic debacle. The most revolutionary laws were the federal credit to property owners, the right to collective bargaining for organized labor, and the Social Security against unemployment, poverty and old age.
Before the banks closed on March 4, 1933, the First National of Beverly Hills, where we had our savings, had declared bankruptcy. Luckily I had deposited money I got for Queen Christina in a downtown bank. It was all we had left. I had been cabling large sums to Berthold. To his ruined family and jobless friends he was the rich uncle from America, and in his absentmindedness he would forget bank notes in hotel rooms or lose them on the streets.
A few weeks after the earthquake, as I was about to renew our lease, Mr. Guercio, the real estate broker, asked me: “Why don’t you buy the house? It’s a bargain. The bank holding the mortgage of fourteen thousand dollars is under liquidation and, as large houses are almost impossible to sell, you could buy it for seven thousand, five hundred. The down-payment is two thousand dollars.” The balance was to be paid in monthly installments of seventy-five dollars. Mr. Guercio talked also about “amortization” and that any amount I spent on improvements would increase the value of the property and be advanced by federal credit to the owner.
I cabled Berthold. He answered that although he loved the house it would be more advisable to buy one in Austria or Lugano, where there were no earthquakes. Nevertheless, Hitler’s speeches and my faith in Roosevelt compelled me to hand two thousand dollars to Mr. Guercio and, as I had Berthold’s power of attorney, I also signed his name to the deed. I was sure that after all his wanderings Odysseus would be pleased to have a home.
The next thing was to apply for a bank loan and repair the damage caused by the earthquake, and while I was at it I decided to put in central heating, build comfortable servants’ quarters, a large guest room above the garage and a terrace leading from the living room to the garden. Though all this sounds forbiddingly extravagant, the sum the Federal Housing allowed covered these improvements. I remember that for the excavation of the basement and installation of the heating system I paid about four hundred and fifty dollars. I enjoyed myself thoroughly hunting for secondhand furniture, and I bought lovely old pieces discarded by the rich of Los Angeles, who used to “redecorate” their homes almost as often as they changed their clothes.
But our beds had to be brand new: I had slept long enough on used, sagging mattresses.
* Later known as Breda and André Simon. Active in the anti-Nazi underground, a prominent Communist leader in Czechoslovakia, executed in a Stalinist purge.
† A Jewish actress living in Elisabeth’s pension.
‡ Herbert Ihering, prominent German theater critic.
28
AS FAR AS I REMEMBER it took MGM some time to persuade Sam N. Behrman, the distinguished playwright, to tear himself away from New York and come to Hollywood to rewrite Queen Christina. Mr. Wanger liked to keep his writer team divided. I learned from Mr. Harwood that Behrman had arrived but that I was to be kept away from him because of my disparaging remarks about the Vajda script. Nevertheless, the next day I heard short rapid steps in the hall, and Mr. Behrman burst into my office determined to talk to me.
I had met him casually, when Berthold was still working for Fox, through Sol Wurtzel for whom Sam had a special, though incomprehensible affection. He found Mr. Wurtzel’s conversation hilarious.
Sam Behrman was about forty, of middle height and weight; his domed forehead was bald, his features distinguished, the brown eyes looked at one with humorous interest and warmth, but they could change rapidly and become absent, when he was bored. Boredom was unbearable to Sam and he blamed it on his “low vitality” and “terrible temperament.” In spite of that—although I am not inclined to feel nostalgic about MGM—I will always cherish the hours, days and weeks we spent together. They have cemented a friendship that has endured through many eventful, exasperating, happy and tragic—and so rapidly vanished—years.
Brilliant, witty, with a weightless sense of humor and a rare gift to uplift, stimulate and exhilarate, Sam has never been “temperamental” with his collaborators, but always generous and inspiring.
Queen Christina was directed by Rouben Mamoulian, an Armenian born in Tiflis and influenced by the Russian Art Theater. Like Murnau, he was a man passionately dedicated to his work. Berthold and I had admired his remarkable staging of Porgy on Broadway. I believe New York appreciated him more than Hollywood. Tall, with melancholy eyes behind large, black-rimmed glasses, he used to stick his head through the door of my office and sternly command: “Say ‘Elisabeth.’ ” He had already conquered the difficulty in pronouncing the ‘th,’ while I was still trying hard not to say “Elithabess.” It made him very happy when I slipped.
Disillusioned with Europe, where she had been mainly busy hiding from reporters, Greta was ready to return to California. Until she could find a suitable house I invited her to stay with us. She was sailing under an assumed name on a Swedish freighter through the Panama Canal, and I was to meet her with the car in San Diego. We hoped that she would disembark unnoticed. To my dismay, on the pier I ran into a large gathering of aggressive reporters, demanding an interview with Garbo. They were determined not to leave the pier until she appeared. There was nothing else to do but give in.
“Are you in love? What about the Prince? Are you engaged to him? Why don’t you get married?” were the things they wanted to know.
In Hollywood they extended their harassment to Mabery Road. The movie magazines must have bribed even our dogs, because one evening, returning from the studio I found my sons in the living room giving an interview to two strangers, who asked them if Miss Garbo was “romantically linked” with Mr. Mamoulian.
I had seen an English film in which I was impressed by the unusual charm of the young leading man. He struck me as the ideal actor to play Christina’s Spanish lover and I raved about him to Wanger and Mamoulian. They agreed, but after three days shooting, the studio decided that although he had the looks for the part he lacked the necessary acting ability. His name was Laurence Olivier and he was replaced by John Gilbert.
The shooting of Queen Christina had started. Sam Behrman went back to New York and I was assigned to the producer Hunt Stromberg, to work on Garbo’s next film, Somerset Maugham’s Painted Veil. Ten well known writers had already worked on it, all trying in vain to make the basic situation, adultery, “palatable” to the producer. The director, Victor Fleming, practiced golf strokes during conferences. From time to time I was recalled for “advisory duties” on Christina, which were a pleasant interruption.
Weeks of uncertainty about the future went by, crowded with work in the studio and furtive happiness. I never doubted that Berthold’s longing and love was as strong and real as he expressed it in his letters. Still, I was sure that he was not celibate in Paris. When I asked him he said that no one really mattered.
Having thrown out a whole year of my life, I shall return to Santa Monica, to your heart, to the children and to the house at the other end of the world . . . I will recover from Europe like from a wild dream and, like a ship after it has been through a storm, I’ll have all the damage repaired. Slowly and cautiously I will bring order into my thoughts and to my writing. I will still battle with my sins and mistakes and now and then have a sleepless night. . . .
I did not battle with my sins and mistakes. Berthold’s emotional conflicts and self-torture were his necessary incitement and inspiration, while I refused to feel guilty when I loved.
Theoretically Berthold agreed with me that directing films in Hollywood could never be artistically satisfactory. He also agreed that the “lost year” was not lost as far as his writing was concerned.
It is because of the great straight line in your nature, that you want to give me the possibility to devote myself completely to writing. However, I am flying on Monday to London, an additional experience, which again will lead back to my writing. So far no other subject to work on has come into my hands, but my own Self; this disagreeable Self, this magic box. A writer must be damned careful that his whole life does not turn out to be merely material for his work. What a blessing that I have you and the boys! You prevent everything from becoming unreal. Every word you say always strikes me with its immediate directness, an acuteness of feeling so true and right, like nothing I have ever experienced. It is as if one watched the naked heartbeat of the world.
It is late and all I can tell you, until I am with you, are merely words. Where did this year go? How was it possible that a whole year has been torn out from our life. . . .
Finally he and British-Gaumont had settled on Little Friend, a novel by the Viennese author Ernst Lothar. The future was now more tangible: Berthold was again the breadwinner and contemplated moving us all to London. Of course, I had first to finish Christina. Though I was deeply attached to our house above the Pacific and the brilliant sunsets I loved to watch from my window, I was looking forward to a return to Europe.
•
Exercise was Oliver’s religion and he always managed to squeeze an hour of tennis into his day, sometimes even two, depending on the season and his producer’s attitude to sport. As his schedule was more leisurely than mine, he usually left the studio earlier than I. After tennis he would drop in at my house, and stay for a drink.
One evening, as we were sitting and chatting, Fred Zinnemann, now directing shorts at MGM phoned me to say that Gottfried Reinhardt, Max’s younger son, was living in Santa Monica and would like to meet me. “Could he come by this evening?”
Oliver stayed another half hour, then left. At the gate he passed a young man, who had just emerged from an ancient, dilapidated roadster. He was tall, heavy set and his thick brown hair fell over his forehead. He had his father’s eyes and smile, and told me that while in Berlin, Berthold had persuaded his mother to send him to America. He intended to work in films and was in some vague way attached to the Lubitsch unit at Paramount. Lubitsch’s idea that one must start a career on the lowest rung of the ladder did not appeal to Gottfried, who preferred to begin if not exactly at the top, at least half way up. He was very funny, his self-assurance made him appear much older than his years, also his big cigar. In the way he tenderly held it, asking my permission to smoke, he reminded me of Ludwig. Oliver phoned to ask who the young man was, stres
sing that he was prompted merely by curiosity, not jealousy. I laughed and said that my guest could easily be my son.
This first impression changed very quickly. As the evening went on I discovered that Gottfried could be my grandfather. He was very intelligent, passionately political, disillusioned with socialism and saved from being overbearing by his great sense of humor. Trying to arouse my sympathy, Gottfried described how he was roughing it in a cheap apartment, and that he cooked his own breakfast. When I asked what he ate, he said: “Fresh strawberries, but I wash them myself.” In all my American years I had not laughed so much as on that evening. It took me back to my youth in Berlin, to the theater and to my old friends.
On leaving, he confessed that he had hesitated to call me for two months, until Fred Zinnemann assured him that I was not the sad, deserted woman with three children he expected me to be.
Berthold returned in July, but only for the summer. Perhaps, had I gone to New York and had we had a few days to ourselves, everything would have been different. But I could not get leave of absence from the studio. The boys were impatient for Berthold to come home and so, as usual, we met in Pasadena and the “lost year,” with its anxieties and disappointments, stood between us like a wall. He was as dear to me as ever, but the impulse which had always drawn us to each other, no matter what happened, was no longer there. I felt an enormous tenderness for him but also the sad certainty that never again would we be lovers.
The Kindness of Strangers Page 26