After they left Thalberg asked me: “How long will it take you to write the treatment?”
“I don’t know. I have to read more. And then I have to ask you a great favor. I must have a leave of absence.”
“Impossible. Why?”
“It’s seven years since I have seen my mother, my family. Please let me write the treatment in Europe. I have to get out of Hollywood. . . .”
He looked at me curiously. I was sure that my personal life was not a secret in the studio. After a while he said: “I know. Sometimes you have to break away . . . Seven years, you said—it’s seven years since you’ve seen your mother? I’ll talk to Eddie Mannix.”
Eddie Mannix was the Vice President of MGM, the second Almighty after L. B. Mayer. A former bouncer and boxer, he could be ruthless and violent, but he adored Garbo and also had a soft spot in his heart for me. After the first obligatory “no” he agreed to give me a two-month vacation and told me that I would remain on salary as I would continue to work for the studio.
And so at last I was on my way to Europe. But as things in life have an arbitrary timing, I was leaving with a divided heart, interrupting—perhaps breaking off—a relationship which had given me two years of great happiness: a happiness to which I could not hold on too firmly.
I arrived in New York on June 26, just in time to board the Aquitania, which was sailing at noon. As we were passing the Statue of Liberty a cable from Gottfried was handed to me. He had succeeded in driving his mother to Reno, and at last the divorce had taken place. As a reward for his travail he had invited Hans and Peter, with their French teacher, to meet him in Lake Tahoe and celebrate the event.
My excitement and impatience did not let me enjoy the calm and pleasant crossing. I was not going home. After my father’s death Mama felt that the house was too big and lonely, too expensive to keep warm in winter, and had decided to transform it into smaller units, which she could lease. This made it impossible for Rose and Edward and their families to spend the summer at Wychylowka as in the good old days. Rose had written to me confidentially that the rent Mama received would never cover the cost of rebuilding. As the Gielens were anxious to escape the sight of swastikas and the strutting Saxonian Nazis for a while, they had chosen Porto Ronco in Switzerland for our family reunion. There, on the shore of Lago Maggiore, Mama, Edward and I would join them.
In Southampton, Berthold was waiting on the pier with Francesco von Mendelssohn. They had come from London in Francesco’s bright red convertible. It was a warm, grayish afternoon, the sun breaking from time to time through the fine drizzle. The silvery haze, my emotional hypertension, Francesco’s speeding, made everything unreal. Berthold seemed a stranger in this green and well-groomed landscape; the hedges, the parks and the meadows lovely but foreign, much more foreign than America had been years ago. This unexpected strangeness, after having touched the longed-for “holy ground” of Europe, flooded my eyes with tears: blinding and bitter they streamed down my face. Toward evening we arrived at the Dorchester, where Berthold had taken a room for me.
The air in London was suffocating. I took a shower and changed into my lightest summer dress; then joined Berthold and Francesco in the bar.
Although the Mendelssohns, Christians for six generations, were declared “Edel-Arier,” Francesco and Eleonora had become voluntary exiles. Francesco maintained that the memory of the Jewish ancestor, the philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, obliged him and Eleonora to abandon the sumptuous Grunewald villa. Eleonora went to Kammer and made it a refuge for her Jewish and Leftist colleagues.
As always Francesco was happy and distressed, enthusiastic and restless. He planned to stage the Three Penny Opera in New York. I listened to him, not able to shake off my sadness, my “not belonging,” although I was with Berthold. He was glad that at last I was in Europe. When Francesco left us we took a cab to a quiet Italian restaurant in Soho and talked.
He had finished The Passing of the Third Floor Back, his second film for British-Gaumont, and was preparing his third, Cecil Rhodes. He was much less nervous than a year ago, optimistic and in good spirits. I knew from his letters that he had met an English actress and they had become very close to each other. He described her as a rare person and a remarkable artist. In the years of Berthold’s voluntary exile, I had been tortured by the thought of his loneliness. I was relieved that he had found understanding, companionship—love. His sister, the courageous Helen, had immigrated to England, and was working as a dressmaker to support her husband and young daughter.
London was filled with German refugees. Elisabeth Bergner had a sensational success in Margaret Kennedy’s Constant Nymph and was acclaimed as the second Duse. Fritz Kortner and Johanna Hofer, Oscar Homolka and many others were furiously learning English. However the Allies had permitted the Germans to rebuild their fleet, Mosley and his followers paraded in the streets, and Berthold told me that watching such a demonstration Fritz Kortner had exclaimed: “My next screen test will be in Chinese!” Everyone hoped to go to Hollywood or New York, and was waiting for a visa to the U.S.A.
When Berthold left me, I was seized by an unbearable despair, a hopeless loneliness. I wished I had not come. Had I recklessly challenged fate? Les absents ont toujours tord.
Next day Berthold brought C. for lunch. She was distinguished-looking and exceptionally brilliant. She had problems in her work because theater and films in England were just as commercial as in America. I liked her immensely.
Later, in the lobby of the Dorchester, we ran into Max Reinhardt and Helene Thimig, married at last and happy. With them was Dr. Kommer, Reinhardt’s pessimistic advisor. Kommer said: “You succeeded where I had failed for eighteen years,” meaning that I had persuaded Else to divorce. But I protested. The credit was due to Gottfried and his impassioned pleas.
I also had to give a detailed report on Hollywood to Gottfried’s older brother, Wolfgang, and his young wife, Lally. The brothers had a strong resemblance to each other, especially in their voices and the manner of speech. Both were conscious of their Reinhardt charm but Wolfgang used it more sparingly. Lally had left her “Aryan” family to follow him into exile.
It was no comfort to be told that there had never been such an oppressive summer in England. The grass in the parks was burnt and yellow. In her little automobile C. took me to see the historical places, but the sultry city depressed me; I could not breathe and was grateful when she invited me and Berthold to spend the weekend at her house on the Thames. It was a Victorian mansion with a large garden and old trees, going down to the river. Their refreshing coolness brought me back to life.
Berthold decided to show me Paris where I had never been. He wanted to visit all the shrines of the Revolution: from the storming of the Bastille to Napoleon. But Paris was as hot as London and having seen Notre Dame, the Tuilleries, the Cité, Versailles and the Trianon, we postponed our pilgrimage for a cooler season.
Our three days in Paris were friendly and nostalgic. We reminisced about Wychylowka and our trip to Venice; but our personal involvements were not mentioned, until I asked if he wanted a divorce. It would never change our relationship but make it easier for “the others.” He objected angrily: “I believe in our marriage as I always have and we will find each other again. I know that we will grow old together.”
•
I don’t remember if it was at Brissago or Ascona that my sister was waiting for me. She seemed so unchanged that only after the first excitement had subsided did I notice the fine lines of worry on her dear, lovely face. They confirmed my fear of what life in Germany was like for her. In spite of Josef’s deep concern and tenderness, the last two years must have been hell. The two children, Bibi and Michael, were beautiful and unconcerned.
The Gielens had rented a little villa in Porto Ronco and, in a neighboring one, rooms for Mama, Edward and me. Edward had a piano in his. He arrived with Mama the same evening, tired from an exhausting season but hardly changed in appearance. His little Margret was spending the
summer with her mother. In the evening after the children had gone to bed, we sat on the veranda of the Gielens’ house, as in the good old days, talking until late. Only the topics of our conversation had changed and were neither as abstract nor literary as years ago. Life had dealt us many blows and each of us had scars we tried not to show to the others.
Our youngest brother had stayed at home with Bella to make Mama’s trip possible. Mama had aged a lot and did not hear well, but her charm and humor, her temperament and enthusiasm remained indestructible. She told us about her charities, how she went from house to house, shop to shop, begging for money, old clothes and food parcels for the poor. A Polish friend, a Christian, went with her; there was no anti-semitism yet among those in misery. “In a small town like ours, where people have known each other for generations, they don’t change so rapidly,” Mama told us. Still, the agonizing question: “What will the world do about the Jews . . . will it let Hitler destroy them?” came up again and again.
Mama and the Gielens supported me when I insisted that Edward should emigrate to the States. I was sure that he would have the same recognition there as in Europe, and I offered my help. But he was doubtful: “I am not the kind of virtuoso to have a sure-fire success in America. Of course I can play well,” he added, understating as usual, “but I don’t have that certain quality necessary for America. No—I am not being negative and it’s not lack of courage, when I worry whether I will be able to adapt myself. You have to think soberly and be aware of the fact that my failure or my success will directly affect you. I suppose I would have possibilities as a teacher, though this too would be difficult at the beginning.”
I had begged him to come first to Santa Monica with little Margret, live with me and see how his career developed. Of course, it was a crucial decision, to leave Europe and to start all over again. The Academy of Music in Florence had made him an honorary member; he had been offered a master class at the Academy of Vienna, he was giving concerts in London, Paris, Warsaw, Barcelona and Madrid. If it had not been for Hitler his recognition in Europe was assured and general. He told us that he had been invited to Russia for a very well-paid concert tour and to teach a master class in Kiev. Everyone who had been to the U.S.S.R. reported how well the artists were treated. “Alas,” Edward sighed, “Russia and the U.S. have one thing in common—their passion for Tchaikowsky’s piano concerto in B minor. . . .”
The days were passing much too fast. Sitting in the garden we would listen to Edward’s playing, through the open window.
On one especially warm evening I said that it was tantalizing to be so near the glaciers and not to see them. All of us agreed that we were longing for cooler, more invigorating air and I easily persuaded them to make an excursion to the Engadine.
We left the children with Rose’s devoted Mädchen für Alles, hired a car and drove over the San Bernardino Pass and Via Mala, to St. Moritz. We arrived in Sils Maria in the evening of August 1, the Swiss Day of Independence, and were greeted by bonfires, torchlight parades, singing and dancing in the streets. The full moon hung high over the snow-covered mountain peaks; they were unbelievably beautiful. We were constantly on the move, picnicking in glades and on rocks, and Mama kept up with us, even on our longest excursions. I had urged Garbo to meet me in Switzerland but she did not dare to move from her hiding place in Sweden, because the reporters were as usual making her life miserable.
Finally I said good-bye to my dear family, promising myself that nothing would make me let seven years go by before we saw each other again. That neither time nor distance had estranged us was movingly confirmed by Edward:
. . . Sometimes all kinds of reasons prevent us from finding the right words. More than ever we are apprehensive about our fate, and our helplessness to interfere with it. All my life this has distressed me in my relation to those close to me. How much more now after such a long time and under foreign skies. But what binds us, besides our inborn brother and sister love, is this deep “concern of the heart” we have for each other. I want you to know, before you return to America, that for all of us, as far as our emotions are concerned, the seven years of separation were as one day and that—even had it been much longer—we can continue an interrupted sentence without fearing that the other won’t understand.
Goodbye, now, my dear heart. I hope this letter will give you lighter and happier thoughts for the crossing. You are taking with you my love and the love of all of us.
Before returning to London I stopped in Paris to say good-bye to Marcel and Juliette Achard, the Feyders and Francesco Mendelssohn. On the Champs Elysées huge posters advertised Emil Jannings in an anti-British film. He was now a Staatsrat and most honored artist of the Third Reich. At a dinner party my neighbor exclaimed: “I don’t see any reason why one should not work in Germany. The Jewish question concerns only the Jews.” I got up and left. Marcel and Francesco followed me. Four years later, after the war broke out and the issue had become not merely a Jewish one, my hosts changed their attitude. During the occupation they went into exile.
•
The homecoming was glorious. I had been impatiently and lovingly expected and even the studio seemed pleased that I was back. Then the usual troubles began. I had to work with a writer who liked only Westerns and was utterly uninformed about anything that had ever happened in the world. It became obvious to Thalberg that our collaboration was a failure, and he chose his favorite writer and one of the most talented and expensive on the lot to work with me. Donald Ogden Stewart was brilliant and delightfully amusing; so amusing that it was hard to concentrate on work. With the exception of the story we were working on, we had many common interests and even some common idiosyncrasies. But he too had a deep dislike for Napoleon and soon wriggled out of the assignment. For a time I worked alone.
The 1936 presidential election was nearing; the Republicans hoped to overthrow FDR and the New Deal. A group of writers, among them Ernest Vajda, organized the Screen Playwrights to prevent recognition of the Screen Writers’ Guild. Oliver became deeply involved in the ensuing fight, also Donald Ogden Stewart. A dedicated anti-Fascist, Don was now the chairman of the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League, which I also joined.
Thalberg did not like the Screen Writers’ Guild; writers were not laborers and it was wrong for them to unionize. During our conferences, neglecting Napoleon and Walewska, we discussed politics and socialism which he considered evil. Once I could not resist saying: “What has a man of your talent and energy, Irving, to fear from socialism? With your organizatory ability, your obsession for work, you would always be the head of production and making better and more artistic films, and you wouldn’t have to worry about financing.”
He stared at me as if I were delirious. Then he began to relate his day from ten in the morning until eleven at night. The rushes—the story conferences—the consultations with the directors, the music department, the set builders and costumers—the telephone calls to China about the locust sequence in Good Earth, his talks with Paris to secure Charles Boyer. Then, having described his global activities he indignantly concluded: “All that I should do for five hundred dollars a week?” We burst out laughing.
Another interesting meeting occurred at that time. Having listened to the Sunday afternoon Philharmonic concert from New York, at which Schoenberg’s Transfigured Night (Verklärte Nacht) was performed, Thalberg decided that Schoenberg was the man to write the score for Good Earth. Next day the producer Albert Lewin came to my office and asked if I could talk to Schoenberg. I explained that long ago Schoenberg had given up the style of Transfigured Night and had been composing twelve-tone music, which I doubted Irving would like. However, I promised to do my best to arrange a meeting. I knew that Schoenberg was having a hard time; he was giving lessons, which took many hours from his own work. I asked him if he would be interested in doing the scoring of Good Earth.
“How much would they pay?”
“Around twenty-five thousand dollars, I suppose.”
I warned him that even if Thalberg wanted a composer of his stature there was no guarantee that he would not interfere. The offer was only worth considering if the twenty-five thousand would free them from financial worry.
A lot of protocol went on before the meeting was arranged and a studio car sent for the Schoenbergs. Thalberg promised me not to keep the great man waiting and he was in his office at 3 P.M. sharp. He wanted me to be present to translate in case there were any linguistic difficulties. At 3:30 there was still no sign of the Schoenbergs. Thalberg got impatient; the secretaries rang the house but were told that Mr. and Mrs. Schoenberg had left hours ago. Suddenly a man, who had been quietly waiting in the hall, approached the desk and said that he was Dr. So-and-So from Bad Nauheim, and that Mr. Thalberg had offered to show him the stages. He was waiting to be picked up by the studio car, but he suspected it was driving Mr. Schoenberg around the lot. Frantic telephoning stopped the tour and the Schoenbergs were brought to the office. Schoenberg had found it perfectly reasonable that he should be shown around the studio before deciding to work there.
We sat down in front of Thalberg’s desk, Schoenberg refusing to part with his umbrella in case he forgot it on leaving.
I still see him before me, leaning forward in his chair, both hands clasped over the handle of the umbrella, his burning, genius’s eyes on Thalberg, who, standing behind his desk, was explaining why he wanted a great composer for the scoring of the Good Earth. When he came to: “Last Sunday when I heard the lovely music you have written. . . .” Schoenberg interrupted sharply: “I don’t write ‘lovely’ music.”
Thalberg looked baffled, then smiled and explained what he meant by “lovely music.” It had to have Chinese themes, and, as the people in the film were peasants, there was not much dialogue but a lot of action. For example, there were scenes like that where the locusts eat all the grain in the fields which needed special scoring, and so on. I translated what Thalberg said into German, but Schoenberg interrupted me. He understood everything, and in a surprisingly literary though faulty English, he conveyed what he thought in general of music in films: that it was simply terrible. The whole handling of sound was incredibly bad, meaningless, numbing all expression; the leveling monotony of the dialogue was unbearable. He had read the Good Earth and he would not undertake the assignment unless he was given complete control over the sound, including the spoken words.
The Kindness of Strangers Page 28