And so, much to Greta’s pleasure, I returned to the “MGM fold” and to the perennial search for a Garbo story. There was one subject which we both liked very much and thought would make an interesting film. It was a novel by the Los Angeles writer, Scott O’Dell. The locale was northern California, in the wonderful country around San Jose. When I suggested the book, Bernie seemed interested, mainly because he immediately conceived the slogan: “Garbo plays a Western.” But as he preferred to make films in the studio, his addiction to farce and operetta won out. I had no help from Gottfried, always capable of swaying Bernie, because this time he shared his views. What they all would have liked best was a sequel to Ninotchka.
Resigned, I gave up arguing and half-heartedly suggested a comedy by Ludwig Fulda, The Twin Sister, an old standby of the Vienna Burgtheater. Sidney Franklin was the producer. Years ago he had made a silent film based on the same play. As George Cukor was to direct it, Garbo agreed. The setting of the original play was Italy during the Renaissance, and I shared the task of making it contemporary with the well-known German actor and dramatist, Curt Goetz, who, preferring a substantial weekly check in Hollywood to a success in the Third Reich, had come to America. As he barely spoke English he was hopelessly handicapped in adapting his witty lines to American humor, and was replaced by Walter Reisch who, though not exactly a humorist, had a feather in his cap as one of the five authors of Ninotchka. To give everyone his due, these authors were: Reisch, Billy Wilder and Charles Bracket, then Melchior Lengyel as the inventor of the original story and S. N. Behrman for the “additional dialogue.” The “Lubitsch touch” was acknowledged by all concerned.
At the time when each day brought news more horrible than one could bear, it was not easy to manufacture a silly comedy. I wrote to Berthold,
These last days were so awful, that I could not write nor work nor think coherently. In growing despair we remained glued to the radio. Gottfried is quite close to a breakdown. I don’t have the heart to remind him of what I said before the outbreak of this war, for which he and Bruno Frank had so ardently prayed. It appeared quite possible to me that the Germans could be victorious, at least, as long as America was not involved. Now everything is more gruesome than we can imagine. Somebody in the studio was saying yesterday that when the 75 mm’s started to shoot into the German tanks, the screaming of those burning inside drowned the roar of the guns. What an inferno the world has become! And London! One can only pray for those dear to us and for all the unknown who have become so dear through their suffering.
Meanwhile, the conferences with Franklin have become so dreary that Walter Reisch blew his top. The result is that Franklin does not want to produce the film. Mannix called me to report to him and I supported Walter’s outburst. Now we are waiting for another producer to take over.
After the fall of Paris, the League of American Writers and the Emergency Rescue Committee took steps to save, at the last minute, the German intellectuals who had fled to the south of France. With the help of Dorothy Thompson and Mrs. Roosevelt, Herman Budzislawski of the Weltbuehne, Schwarzschild, publisher of the Tagebuch, and the composer Hanns Eisler, received their visas; and the major studios hired, at a minimum salary of one hundred dollars a week, such renowned novelists as Heinrich Mann, Alfred Doeblin, Leonhardt Frank, Wilhelm Speyer, Alfred Neumann, and the journalists and critics Alfred Polgar, Walter Mehring, Jan Lustig and George Froeschel. Emil Ludwig, Franz Werfel and Lion Feuchtwanger rejected the offer, as their books were selling well in America. Hollywood could now boast of being the Parnassus of German literature, inasmuch as Thomas Mann had also become a resident of the Pacific Palisades. Alfred and Lisl Polgar had come from Lisbon and had been spared the ordeal which Heinrich Mann, his wife Nelly, the Werfels and Thomas Mann’s son Golo went through crossing the Pyrenees on foot, the Gestapo close behind them.
It is unpardonable of me not to remember on what occasion I was introduced to Thomas Mann. It must have been at a meeting or banquet for some cause, most likely the Emergency Rescue Committee of which he and Dr. Kingdon, President of Newark University, were the chairmen. A slight man of medium height, he wore his hair parted on the side and a neat graying moustache under the jutting nose. He had the reserved politeness of a diplomat on official duty. His speeches, delivered in a careful, literary English, impressed the Americans, especially the younger generation, with their elevated intellectual content; and they were the pride of the refugee intelligentsia, anxious to preserve their cultural heritage. Frau Katja, his wife and the mother of his six children, accompanied him everywhere. Erika’s beautifully-shaped head with the boyish haircut and dark eyes could sometimes be seen in the photos taken at banquets, meetings and lectures, but as a war correspondent she was rarely in the United States.
It was through Karl Kraus that Berthold met Heinrich Mann, one of the few contemporary writers whom Kraus appreciated. Mann’s satirical masterpiece Der Untertan, portrayed especially well the German subservience to militarism and nationalism. Later Heinrich Mann’s pacifist-socialist convictions and his early awareness of Teutonic racism made him a great influence in the Popular Front movement. In America, he was overshadowed by the fame of his brother. He was nearing seventy when, thanks to the Emergency Committee, he became a screenwriter at Warner Brothers. With his distinguished looks and the manners of a nineteenth-century grand seigneur, he appeared an odd figure in the Burbank studio. The German game: “Who is the greater writer, Heinrich or Thomas Mann?” continued to be played by the emigrants. Those inclined toward the left were for Heinrich, the more conservative for Thomas Mann.
At least thirty years younger than her husband, Nelly Mann was a voluptuous, blond, blue-eyed Teutonic beauty with red lips and sparkling teeth. Her sometimes ribald manner confirmed the rumor that she had been a barmaid in Hamburg. But even those she shocked had no doubts about her devotion to her husband. She drank secretly, slipping out to the bathroom or kitchen, coyly refusing the drinks offered at parties; then insisted on driving Heinrich home, to which he heroically consented.
Heinrich Mann’s seventieth birthday was approaching and the “German writers in exile” felt that some notice should be taken of this event. Unfortunately, on the same day in March, 1941, Thomas Mann was to receive an Honorary Doctor’s degree from the University of California in Berkeley. Immediately afterward he had a commitment for lectures, and would not return to Los Angeles until the end of April. After long diplomatic negotiations, the dinner had to be postponed until May. A major disagreement ensued as to whether it should take place in a restaurant or a private home. I called Berthold in New York and asked him whether I should not offer our house for the celebration. He was all for it. Lion Feuchtwanger and Liesl Frank were both delighted and promised to give me a list of guests, which had to be accepted by Nelly. She and Alma Mahler-Werfel were feuding and Nelly disapproved of everyone who was friendly with the Werfels. Finally the Feuchtwangers succeeded in arranging a truce and forty-five persons were invited. I set a long table in the living room; it could be removed quickly after the dinner was over. Decorated with flowers and candles it looked very festive.
Heinrich sat on my right and Thomas Mann on my left, Nelly was opposite us, towering over the very small Feuchtwanger on her right; on her left was Werfel. Everyone else was seated strictly according to age and prominence. I had begged Berthold to send me a telegram which would welcome Heinrich Mann, and I hoped to get it before dinner. Good, faithful Toni Spuhler took over the kitchen and managed very well, in spite of the many refugees who, awed by the importance of the evening, had insisted on giving her a hand, and also helping Walter and Hedy to serve. For them Heinrich and Thomas Mann, Alfred Neumann, Franz Werfel, Alfred Polgar, Lion Feuchtwanger, Alfred Doeblin, Walter Mehring, Ludwig Marcuse, Bruno Frank represented the true Fatherland to which in spite of Hitler they adhered, as they adhered to the German language.
We finished the soup and as the telegram had not arrived I made a speech, which had the virtue of being very
brief. Bruno Frank and Feuchtwanger were to speak after the main course and I motioned to Walter to go on serving but he discreetly pointed to Thomas Mann, who had risen and was putting on his spectacles. Then, taking a sizeable manuscript out of the inner pocket of his tuxedo, he began to read. I assumed it was at least fifteen pages long and I was right, because many years later Thomas Mann mentioned this speech in a letter to his son Klaus, offering it as an essay for the periodical Decision. It was a magnificent tribute to the older brother, an acknowledgement of Heinrich’s prophetic political wisdom, his far-sighted warnings to their unhappy country, and a superb evaluation of his literary stature.
We hardly had time to drink Heinrich Mann’s health before he rose, also put on his glasses and also brought forth a thick manuscript. First he thanked me for the evening then, turning to his brother, paid him high praise for his continuous fight against fascism. To that he added a meticulous literary analysis of Thomas Mann’s oeuvre in its relevance to the Third Reich. I no longer remember all the moving and profound thoughts expressed in both speeches. It gave one some hope and comfort at a time when the lights of freedom seemed extinguished in Europe, and everything we had loved and valued buried in ruins. At the open door to the pantry the “back entrance” guests were listening, crowding each other and wiping their tears.
The roast beef was overdone and Toni was upset, but the guests were elated and hungry and did not mind. Bruno Frank’s and Lion Feuchtwanger’s speeches were brief and in a lighter vein. The dessert, my chocolate cake, a “speciality of the house,” was served and disappeared rapidly. Toward the end of the dinner Martha Feuchtwanger spontaneously offered a toast, “To Nelly, who saved Heinrich Mann’s life, practically carrying him in her arms on their rough trek through the Pyrenees. She supported him with her loving strength and gave courage to us all.”
Nelly hid her face in her hands when we surrounded her to clink glasses and then, screaming with laughter, pointed to her red dress, which had burst open revealing her bosom in a lace bra.
Berthold’s telegram was handed to me after we had left the table. I read it aloud and Heinrich Mann suggested that all the guests send a greeting to the absent host. While everyone gathered to sign his name, I said to Bruno Frank how touched I was by the wonderful homage the brothers had paid each other.
“Yes,” said Bruno. “They write and read such ceremonial evaluations of each other, every ten years.”
35
THE DEFUNCT HAPSBURG MONARCHY must have been much more broadminded than the Legion of Decency and “The Catholic Interest Committee of the Knights of Columbus of Manhattan and the Bronx,” who both maintained that our comedy was glorifying adultery.
The Two-Faced Woman had this plot in common with the original Twin Sister: to test her husband’s fidelity and refresh his subsiding ardors, a young woman impersonates a non-existing twin sister, whose mondaine, flighty, capricious personality contrasts with her demure and less superficial self. The experiment succeeds and dismayed she sees him fall head over heels in love with the invented twin.
Gottfried Reinhardt was the producer, under Bernie Hyman’s executive control. George Cukor directed, Sam N. Behrman and I wrote the screenplay with Mr. George Oppenheimer, who having participated in the creation of Marx Brothers comedies was an expert in the farcical situations to which Bernie was so devotedly attached. As nothing divides people more than difference in their sense of humor, it was a miracle that my friendship with Gottfried survived the severe test. Sam Behrman’s authority and intervention prevented many bitter feuds. But the attacks upon the film were unjustified; it was also not true that it had “degraded” a great actress. I saw it in London, twenty-five years after it was made, when age and events had made me objective and even indifferent. I found the audience amused and appreciative; I thought that it had very funny scenes and, thanks to Sam, excellent and witty dialogue. But I thought that Garbo was miscast. Unlike Ninotchka, in which Lubitsch had humorously exploited her unique personality, The Two-Faced Woman demanded a flippant comedienne. Nevertheless Garbo’s beauty and charm were prodigiously rewarding even in this unimportant film.
The assertion that The Two-Faced Woman “glorified incest and adultery” appeared preposterous even to Louis B. Mayer, and he invited Archbishop Spellman, who was visiting Los Angeles, to see and judge the film. After a lunch with the executive his Eminence had a wonderful time in the projection room. He gave the film his blessing but suggested that we add a scene, showing that the husband knew all along that the twin sister was his one and only wife. This change did not improve the film.
My next job was The Paradine Case, a classic murder novel, which was not for Garbo; but Victor Saville, the producer, would have been delighted had she shown any interest, and the star role would have been rewritten for her.
A “junior writer,” Miss Polly James, was to help me with linguistic problems. We liked each other and the work went pleasantly and smoothly ahead.
One day I read that Lawrence Steinhardt had been appointed as U.S. ambassador to Moscow. Garbo had met him when he was assigned to Stockholm and she thought that perhaps he could precipitate the visa for my mother. He answered her cable immediately: “. . . I shall do everything possible to facilitate the departure of Mrs. Steuermann as soon as her immigration case has been established in the Consular Section of the Embassy . . .”
In February, 1941 I had received a telegram signed by Viktoria, which asked me to cable fifteen hundred dollars to a Mr. Konrad Styckgold in New York, and immediately notify her that the required sum had been sent. The cable ended with the mysterious words: “The eternal road. See you soon. Viktoria Holowka.” I cabled the fifteen hundred dollars and on May 30 another cable from Dusko notified me that Mama had left for Moscow to get a Japanese visa, and that she would embark in Kobe on the S.S. Cleveland, sailing on July 20. Immediately I mailed a check to the American Embassy for her passage and held my breath. However new rules and regulations relating to visas became effective on July 3, and my friend in Washington informed me that “from now on all decisions were made by the Department of State and not by the consuls abroad.” He promised that he would do everything to get the authorities to reapprove the visa quickly and notify Mr. Steinhardt. Meanwhile, it was impossible for Mama to sail on the S.S. Cleveland as the Soviet government withheld her permission to leave. She was seventy-three, did not know a soul in Moscow, and the thought of her anguish and loneliness haunted me. I kept sending money and telegrams to the U.S. Embassy.
I’ll never forget one night when Hans and Thomas had induced me to go to the movies in Hollywood. As we left the theater we heard the newspaper boys shout: “German armies invade Russia.” First I did not believe the headline; then my next thought was of Dusko in Sambor and my mother in Moscow!
The next morning, it was a Sunday, I got a cable from Dusko, asking me to send “the same sum as for Augusta,” but the banks were closed and the telegraph office refused to forward money to the war zone. I tried all day Monday, but all connections with West Ukraine were cut. My only hope was that Dusko had fled with the retreating Soviets.
Soon after these events Lawrence Steinhardt arrived in Los Angeles and visited MGM. Greta brought him to my office. He was very sympathetic and said he knew my mother, as she often came to the Embassy. “We are all greatly impressed by the charming old lady. The Russians occasionally ask favors of us and on the next occasion I will insist that they let your mother leave the country.” He kept his word.
The following letter arrived late in July. It was dated June 16, 1941.
Moscow, Hotel National. June 16, 1941
Dearest, dearest Edek and Salka: This is now the third week that I am besieging the Police Department to give me permission to leave Russia. They say I will have to wait until I get an answer to my application and then it is not at all certain that it will be positive. At the American Embassy they are very attentive to me. Mr. Steinhardt received me with utmost friendliness and told me that he had seen y
ou, darling Salka, and promised you to do everything in his power to get me to America. So there is nothing else to do but to wait patiently, which is not easy.
In the first few days alone in this huge, beautiful city, I thought I would go insane and did not dare to leave the hotel. But my love for music saved me. There are concerts every day at the music schools, where one does not have to pay and I can listen to remarkable pianists. Yesterday, a certain Bublikow, a pupil of Igunow, made a great impression upon me. He played Schumann’s Waldszenen and Rachmaninoff’s third concerto and was really marvelous. I am also going to hear Portnoj play a concerto by an Armenian composer. Portnoj does not cease to regret that you, Edward, are not here, as it is an Eldorado for artists. Your pupils Muenzer and Koffler have great success; they play in Leningrad, in Kiev, in the Crimea. Their concerts are well organized; they are paid a lot of money and don’t have to worry about anything. Yesterday I went to hear the Bach-Schoenberg Cantata performed by a new young conductor. I did not think he was an interesting personality.
There are many theaters and you can see Othello in Armenian, King Lear in Yiddish, Maria Stuart in Russian. What the Russians have achieved is very impressive, but one has to be young here and able to work hard. For old people like me, life is very bitter because we are useless. I hope this exit permit will come soon! Salka is spending large sums to get me out and I am stuck in this hotel room for which I have to pay twenty-four rubles. However, the hotel has one advantage: it is close to the American Embassy, even on the same side of the street. The streets are so wide and there is such traffic that I have to gather all my courage to cross. Luckily the music school is not too far away and on a narrower street. I also have my meals there in the students’ canteen, which is clean, simple and cheap.
The Kindness of Strangers Page 34