The Kindness of Strangers

by Salka Viertel

  Hanns and Lou Eisler were threatened with deportation and detention in a “Lager” in Germany. Again a committee, to which I belonged, collected money to help them. Hanns’s worst misfortune was to be the brother of Gerhard Eisler, and to have a monster as a sister. She denounced him and Gerhard to the FBI and wrote hate-filled and well-paid articles against them which made the front page in leading American newspapers.

  Gerhard Eisler was arrested, but jumped bail, and under the very nose of the FBI, left the United States on the Polish ship Batory. Immediately, headlines accused him of being an atom spy, which did not improve his brother’s situation. In an indignant article, “Cry Shame,” published in the Nation, Martha Gellhorn described the treatment Hanns Eisler had received from the Un-American Committee. Finally, through the intervention of Professor Albert Einstein, Heinrich and Thomas Mann, William L. Shirer and President Benes, he and Lou were granted permission for a stay in Czechoslovakia. They were deported and had to sign a declaration promising never to return to the United States, nor to Cuba or Mexico; which was rather strange as neither of these countries are a part of the United States.

  I no longer saw those who still represented glamorous Hollywood. Ernst Lubitsch and Sam Hoffenstein died that same year. Embittered, disgusted with Hollywood, post-war Germany, and the whole world, Sam rarely left his house. From time to time he would ask two or three intimate friends for dinner, usually a young screenwriter Elisabeth Reinhardt (no relation to Max) and me. The evening would start with martinis, of which Sam took too many; then he made us laugh with his outrageous blasphemies, uproarious improvisations and solemn Hebrew incantations. Then, invariably, he would become “Swiftian,” aggressive and bitter, and abused everyone and everything. One morning Elisabeth rang me, in tears. Sam had phoned her at four in the morning, asking her to come; he was alone and feeling ill. When she arrived he was slumped at the telephone, dead. It was a great loss for us all.

  •

  After two years in the service, my Hans was demobilized but decided to stay in Europe and spend a few months at the Sorbonne, which was offering foreign students a course in French culture. At this time the prospect of producing the Georges Sand film abroad was still acute, and we looked forward to a reunion. En route I would stop in New York to visit with Edward and Berthold. It depended on my contract whether I would leave my mother with Edward and Clara, or in good care in Santa Monica.

  Hans wrote from Paris:

  After all these months in drab, poverty-stricken and destroyed Germany, it was like being back in the world again. I realize now that the peculiarity of Germany lies not in her present state of prostration. I have been living among people who for twelve years had been completely cut off from the flow of world thought, and those of my age had grown up behind a new kind of Chinese wall, which in its way was even more impenetrable.

  As he could not get batteries for his hearing aid in Paris, he went to London and appeared, lugging his suitcase, at the flat of his aunt and uncle, Helene and Willi Bruckner. They had last seen him when he was seven years old, and received him with great joy. They insisted he stay with them although the procurement of food was a major problem—I tried to alleviate it by sending food parcels. In her eagerness to keep Hans in London, Helene at once began scheming to find him a job. She had established herself as a successful designer and dressmaker, although not as prosperous as to suit the wishes of her generous heart. Both she and Willi were very popular among the German emigrés, of whom many had achieved influential positions in the theater and the BBC. Quite a few, like Heinrich Fischer, our former Dramaturg of Die Truppe, knew and admired Berthold. Hans was introduced to the chiefs of the German section of the BBC, and invited to write and deliver ten-minute broadcasts to Germany.

  The BBC also wanted Berthold to direct their German programs. The Schauspielhaus in Zurich, the Volksbühne in Berlin and the Staatstheater in Dresden all offered him contracts. A newspaper wanted him as editor. Many who hoped for a de-Nazified Germany urged him to return. Hans urged him to tear himself away and come to England. The BBC notified him that his contract and working permit had been mailed and that he would have to leave very soon. There was no time for good-byes. Would we meet in London or Paris, or—yes, where?

  Berthold had told me that the letter from Dresden included an offer for me—a contract to act and direct at the Staatstheater. But I never considered going back. My mother was too old to be exposed to radical change, my sons were Americans, and the only place I had become attached to was that small promontory above the Pacific Ocean with winding Mabery Road. I did not believe that all Germans were Nazis; but that even those who had had Jewish friends had tacitly accepted their disappearance, the unspeakable horrors and the mass exterminations made it impossible for me to return. I was aware of the heroism of those who had never been swayed. Paul Wegener, Edward von Winterstein, Gerda Mueller, a few of my former colleagues, our dear Louise Wenzel, they had all remained uncorrupted. A long list of children’s names, which I had received from Helli Brecht, was most persuasive. All these sick and undernourished Annemaries, Ingrids, Gerdas, Heidemaries, Gudruns and Kristas, interspersed with Karl-Heinzes, Bernds and Klauses, had next to their names: “Father beheaded—father died in concentration camp—father executed for high treason—father hanged for contributing to the demoralization of the army,” and so on and on. There were also two beheaded mothers.

  And just to show the insane repercussions of the Cold War, I must mention that when I asked people, who during the siege of Stalingrad had generously contributed to the Russian War Relief, to give me a check or old clothes they refused because “communists would get them.”

  •

  It seemed sensible that Berthold should go alone to London and see how things turned out. Then if he decided to stay, Liesel would join him. As usual, in his letters he was pleased with the tempting offers and at the same time apprehensively cautioning himself as everything seemed a plunge into darkness. Finally he made a decision and suddenly mentioned a subject he had once declared taboo: our divorce. He reminded me that:

  In your kind concern you have several times suggested a divorce, but I was always against it. However, should I really go to Europe, to London or Switzerland—I am still not sure where—I am afraid that, as you have rightly foreseen, such a formality could be necessary. As long as I am married to you, Liesel and I cannot travel together. Surprisingly, she wants it, although living with me is certainly more trying than ever. I don’t have to tell you how devotedly she has taken care of me—always cheerful and good-natured. This and her utter absence of pettiness makes our existence happy and easy . . . I don’t know where I’ll end up: Austria or Germany, or will I return to America? No one can foresee. All I hope for is a few creative years; then whatever happens I’ll be content. I am not depressed, merely fatalistic. Tell me what you think of all this. But more than anything I wish to see you. Again it’s the money. If only you could come to New York.

  Not only could I not afford the trip to New York, but I could not leave Mama alone in her little room. She needed much more care now. Also I had to apply for the divorce. I asked Larry Beilenson how we could get it over quickly and painlessly. Soothingly phlegmatic, Larry said that he did not see any reason to hurry. Speed was a matter of money and, as we were too poor for Nevada, there was only the “normal” procedure in Los Angeles or the disagreeable one in New York. I explained Larry’s reason to Berthold, who answered:

  I understand that Nevada or Mexico are too costly, and I firmly refuse to submit to the performance of an “in flagranti” necessary in New York. Further, I do not wish either of us to charge incompatibility or mental cruelty. If the worst comes to the worst, let’s have desertion.

  This was truly Berthold; no aspersions upon the insoluble bond of our hearts and souls was permitted, no “incompatibility” or “mental cruelty” should ever cast a shadow upon it—desertion was more like an act of God.

  I’d have preferred that all that was
unnecessary. However, once Liesel and I decide to keep house in countries like England, Germany and Austria, everything becomes so difficult, so unhealthy and expensive, that one has to comply with the rules.

  And so Larry Beilenson filed my suit for divorce in Los Angeles.

  Leaving America seemed to Berthold like a second emigration, or like a return to somebody once very dear but now disfigured and scarred by a horrible disease.

  In late September Tommy came from Vermont to say good-bye to his father. I said farewell on the telephone. It was more than three years since Berthold had left, and as always, his voice seemed to bridge the distance and the years. This time it sounded blurred and so far away that I could hardly hear it . . . I was terribly upset and forgot what I wanted to say. . . .

  I have a snapshot of Berthold and Thomas standing on the deck of the Queen Mary, the son towering over the father, who is smiling broadly into the camera, while Tommy looks down at him with great tenderness. . . .

  The District Court of Los Angeles took its time about the divorce, but on December 27, 1947, I was able to dispatch the following news to London:

  Dearest Berthold and dearest Hans: Forgive me for not writing for such a long time. I washed my car with a new kind of cleaner and it caused a terrible rash on my hands, which drove me insane. Finally the doctor gave me something which helped and now it is almost gone. This is an explanation and not a complaint.

  The divorce was on the 20th. The judge was rather unpleasant because I refused to accuse you, Berthold, of “abuse and cruelties.” It made him suspicious. I said that you didn’t want me to go with you to England. You will read all this in the documents they are sending you. Renée Zinnemann was my witness. Everything was done in a most civilized way. As Renée had seen you in London, the judge wanted to know whether you had told her that you loved another woman, and she confirmed this. Of course, no names were mentioned. He was also suspicious because I did not ask for alimony. “Are you sure you have been a good and faithful wife?” he sternly inquired, and my lawyer, Larry’s associate, said quickly: “She has, your Honour.”

  You know how little respect I have for the institution of marriage and for property. Thirty years ago, when I married you, I was convinced that our relationship would be exceptional in our absolute truthfulness toward each other. I loved you and I shall always do so. We have held together and belonged to each other through all the storms. Nothing will ever change that. Everything has been unerringly true and will remain true to the very end.

  Leaving the court I suddenly thought of that afternoon in Pasadena at Mrs. Gartz’s house—you remember? It was our first year in America and Upton Sinclair took us there for tea. A wizened old lady, a friend of Mrs. Sinclair, was telling fortunes and insisted that you let her read your palm. She was terribly impressed, said you were a genius, that you would leave California and that oceans and countries would separate you from me. Also that you would marry again. She refused to tell my fate. I told Renée of this prophecy.

  [Then abruptly turning from clairvoyance to realities, my letter continued:]

  Fritzi Massary wants to give you a Christmas present and I advised her to send you a food package; so don’t be surprised when you get five dozen eggs from Canada. Write her your thanks to New York, care of Liesl Frank: they are spending the holidays together. On the first of the year I am sending you and Hans food parcels. I will notify Liesel, your Liesel, about the divorce. I embrace you and Hans lovingly. Salka.

  Berthold replied:

  Had the judge known my feelings towards you, he would never have granted the divorce, because in most marriages a relationship such as ours does not exist. You must know that I consider this formality an act of your kindness and utmost generosity and it makes you more lovable than ever. It moves me deeply as it only strengthens our bond. But I must admit that it made me very sad. It aroused a whole world of thoughts and emotions, which belong only to you and are indisputably yours as long as I live . . . I long for you and I worry about you terribly.

  I love and respect you, and always more and more, but that does not help . . . Divorce or no divorce, what difference does it make? If only you were happier. . . .

  The last sentence surprised me. I was not unhappy. I was exhausted, impatient, frustrated, often desperate, overworked; but my life still had moments of joy, of sensuous and intellectual pleasures. Even getting old was no threat. I never had the temperament nor the leisure to become aware of it.

  42

  LOOKING THROUGH NOTEBOOKS, letters and diaries, it occurs to me that as the years went by, my life ceased to be solely my own. It became like the estuary of a big river into which other streams flowed. I could not influence their course but I was affected by it. First there were my sons; the confiding, although not entirely candid Jigee; and Edward, who luckily had his young, strong and utterly devoted Clara. Then Berthold, whose bitter years of exile were rewarded by the heart-warming reception in London, soon to be followed by a series of great successes in the German theater. He had married Liesel and his letters sounded happy.

  After my tenants left, my mother and I moved back into the house. Thomas, “our American Parsifal” as Berthold called him, returned, to continue his studies in Los Angeles. Then the fog and cold drove Hans out of London and he decided to use his “G.I. Bill” to enroll at the University of California. But when William Dieterle, who had always appreciated Hans’s talents, asked him to prepare material for a planned production, Hans was immediately seduced, and divided his time between films and ancient history. The return of my sons drew, in succession, many young women to the house, some charming, some less so, one even with an adorable little daughter; but she stayed only a short while.

  Then a friend told me that a young couple could not find a place to live, because the wife was white and the husband a Negro. She was sure that they would like to have my vacated garage apartment; and so Lynn and Carlton Moss, two very attractive and remarkable people, came into my life and into my crowded heart. In 1947 Civil Rights were still merely on paper and California not the most tolerant of the States. After his discharge from the army, Carlton was making educational films for Negro grammar schools. Lynn had been acting in radio plays and television, until she was blacklisted and forced to take all kinds of strenuous, badly paid jobs to make a living. For Thomas, who missed his father, Carlton was a godsend, a close friend and advisor. My mother also adored the Mosses.

  In all the years I had lived on Mabery Road, I had exchanged merely friendly nods and brief greetings with my next-door neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Ferris, an old retired couple. Aloof and gentle, they did not even reproach me when my dogs dug a hole under the fence and killed their pet duck, Matilda. Lynn and Carlton had lived for some time in the “Schloss,” as Carlton called the house (pronouncing it “slush”), when early one morning, as I was watering my roses, I saw Mrs. Ferris cutting flowers in her garden. I wished her a pleasant day; she called back: “Oh, I am so glad to see you,” and came to the fence with a huge bunch of sweetpeas. “I’d like you to give this to your mother.” I thanked her and said that my mother would be enchanted with the lovely bouquet. Then Mrs. Ferris asked: “That nice couple over your garage, are they staying with you for any length of time?”

  “As long as they wish it,” I answered defensively.

  But Mrs. Ferris had more on her mind and slowly and hesitantly it came out. “You know that Mrs. A., the lady who owns that large Spanish house down the road, has been canvassing for signatures to protest your renting to Negroes?”

  “No one can tell me who should or should not live in my house . . .” I burst out angrily.

  Mrs. Ferris reached over the fence and put her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t get excited! I want you to know that no one signed. We, the property owners on this side of the Canyon, had a meeting”—apparently I was not considered a “property owner” as I had been excluded—“and my husband told them: ‘These are friends of Mrs. Viertel. We are pleased she is our neighbor.�
� ”

  Moved by the unexpected support, I thanked Mrs. Ferris profusely. But she had not finished. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head and looking reproachfully at me, added: “Yes, that’s what my husband told them, regardless of the fact that we’ve seen you driving around with that ‘Roosevelt for President’ sticker on your car.”

  Dear Mrs. Ferris! This was the only time in my life I regretted not being a Republican.

  Berthold’s impatient desire to go to Germany was unexpectedly fulfilled. The BBC sent him with a large staff to report about the Ruhr Valley and the cities on the Rhine. The first was Dusseldorf, with its memories of our life together:

  There are no words to describe what this place looks like. No words, no photography can give you a glimpse of the total destruction. That’s what totalitarian total war looks like, and that’s how the whole world will look after the next one. The Schauspielhaus does not exist anymore. I cannot tell you how touching Lindemann was, how happy to see me. He had been in hiding during the Nazi years and they say that Gruendgens saved him.* I saw our old colleagues and friends; no one has changed much. They know a lot about us, just as we have known about them, but the most amazing thing is that the Hitler years have left no mark: it seems they have not existed. Only we know of the millions dead, murdered and martyred, of the unspeakable horrors. The people here pick up exactly where they left off in 1928. It’s true that Gustav is shaken by Louise’s death; she is constantly before his eyes. Nevertheless, he looks healthy, strong, and marvelously well preserved for his age.

  The misery is unbelievable. And all those ruins! . . . and the people you see are ruins also, ruins of a nation which, in spite of all, goes on living and working harder than ever. However, the nationalism of the workers is quite different from the nationalism of the Nazis. Ah, well, in the end it is no different than everywhere else, only tougher, coarser and, therefore, more dangerous and just as loathsome.