Marlene Read online

  Pay the taxi. Count your change for the last time. For the last time? Who knows? Perhaps tomorrow will be exactly the same as today. But you must count your money. It’s dark. The taxi driver smiles. Leave him all the change you have.

  It’s raining. Here I am at Number One. Take me, Number One. I’ve already come so often; here I am again.

  “When you come to the other side of the hill, you’ll all be safe. One of our boys should be there, near a shed I think. But be careful; everything is camouflaged. If you go too far, you’ll run into the Germans. Get going now, lower your heads.”

  The ride was rough—head kept low, knees bumped against the chin, teeth knocked against each other. The jeep drove head-long up the hill. Sudden bursts of speed made my head fall back. My bones cracked. I saw the sky, the low clouds, the treetops, the earth. And helmets, an irregular row of helmets. The enemy. Suddenly a hissing sound. The toe of a boot is in my back. “Take cover, stupid!” We went down the hill at breakneck speed. A jolt, screeching brakes, and something like a giant centipede seems to spring from heaven on the helmets, the shoulders, the backs.

  “Crawl out! Open your eyes, dammit! Crawl out, get going, stay under the net. Head for the shed.”

  A thunderous din. The echo reverberates in the hills. Our hands sink in mud. If they should hit us now! What a way to die—on all fours! The door of the shed is half open. Inside, silence and darkness. I can hear breathing. I feel I’m being observed. After a while I can discern dark, dirty, bearded faces; fixed glares under pulled-down helmets, rifles like upright lances on which the light of a match is reflected.

  Next to me, two crates, turned upside down. The stage. The men don’t make a move. Uneasy men in combat dress. The roar of the cannon grows louder. Someone sticks a finger in my back. “Shall we begin?” “Yes,” I say.

  We have to begin. The orders are strict. “Begin the moment you’re there. Make it brief. The shed’s under sustained fire.”

  They don’t want what we have to offer. “What idiot gave you this order, girlie?” “Fine,” I say. “We’ll drop it. We’ll wait for a lull in the firing before leaving.”

  We talk in whispers and smoke. Our voices show where we’re sitting in the darkness. A brief burst of laughter on one side. A soldier is telling a story. A note comes from the accordion. Hesitantly, I begin to sing softly. A saucy song that tells what’s going on “in the next room.” Heads turn around me. Other eyes meet mine. I continue singing in a soft voice. They listen, hold them, purr, coo, hook them, hold them. Ten minutes of distraction, that’s all, girlie. That’s all they want of you. Can you give it to them? Do you think you can do it?

  “Good will alone is not enough,” the general had said. “If you lose your nerve, if you break down, then this good will only harms me. But if you can swing it—then bravo. It’ll do the soldiers good to know that you’re at the front. They’ll tell themselves the situation can’t be so bad if Marlene Dietrich’s there. If we were all going to be mowed down here, the old man certainly wouldn’t expose her to such danger.”

  “False reasoning,” he added. “But you must reduce the tension; they need that.”

  “I’m not afraid of dying, General, but I am afraid of being taken prisoner. I have a captain’s rank. Why only captain? Why not general? Perhaps the Germans know that I’m in the European theater of operations? My rank will hardly impress them if they catch me. They’ll shave off my hair, stone me, and have horses drag me through the streets. If they force me to talk on the radio, General, under no circumstances believe anything I say.”

  The general smiled, turned around and took a revolver out of his windbreaker. “Here, shoot rather than surrender! It’s small, but it’s effective.”

  “No love, no nothing until my baby comes home …” The earth quakes. A clap of thunder reverberates around us. The next time they’ll surely get us with a direct hit. “No fun, with no one … plenty of sleep.” What now? Orders. I’m a silly goose! They’re right. Sitting here and singing stupid songs. “I’m lonesome, heaven knows.”

  The eyes of all the soldiers are riveted on me. It’s becoming darker and darker. The thunderclaps now seem to be getting less frequent. I get the impression that I’m waiting impatiently for the storm to disperse, counting the seconds between the lightning flashes and the thunderclaps in order to determine the distance before I run out and fly kites.

  Steps on the straw, flashlights. “Scram, get out of here, quickly.”

  I touch cold hands, moist shoulders, good-bye for now, see you again. Our voices sound like children’s voices. See you soon! Outside only half-smothered curses, shoves in order to get rid of us before something happens. The motor is started.

  A hullabaloo over the hills like a smoke signal. Maybe they won’t waste their ammunition on a single jeep. Suddenly, hell breaks loose. They’re taking aim at us—but they don’t hit us. Quick, quick, behind the hilltop and we’ll be safe. The soldier at the wheel groans under the strain, crouched over himself and muttering curses. Now we’re moving along steadily, the wind is cold. It dries the sweat on our foreheads. Forest—the tires roll over tender leaves. Behind us, on either side of the hill, they’re fighting.

  Suddenly, the sound of a voice: “Stop!” Who’s that? Nobody can be seen. Before we left, we had been warned about enemy infiltrators, paratroopers behind our lines who wear our uniforms.

  “Step forward and identify yourselves.” An American voice. But that doesn’t mean anything. The Germans are very good at these games. “One of you come here and identify yourself.” A rifle appears on our right. Hands push me out of the jeep.

  “Get a move on.”

  Why me? Here I am, in a French forest near Pont-a-Mousson, and I state the number of my regiment, our base, our names. The rifle is still pointed at us.

  “The password?”

  Heaven help me! What is the password? I haven’t the slightest idea. None of us knows it. Useless to ponder over it—I’ve never known it.

  “I don’t know the password,” I say.

  Abraham Lincoln’s birthdate? How many Presidents has the United States had?

  The voice begins to ask, my answers will indicate whether or not I’m a real American. If I were a spy I would certainly know all the answers. But I knew only three. The rifle is still pointed in my direction. Doubt is buzzing through the armed man’s head like a bat.

  “Why don’t you know the password?”

  “We left our quarters before dawn, the password had not been given yet. It wasn’t communicated to us. Please, let me come nearer, you’ll see that we’re not lying. Or go over to the jeep; there’s a guy from Oklahoma, the accordionist, and a girl from Texas in it.”

  “Show business people, huh? Then tell me which song was Number One on the ‘Hit Parade’ in the summer and fall of 1941, just before Pearl Harbor?”

  My God, how was I to answer this question?

  “What idiot sent you here? A paper tiger? A henpecked husband? A rocking horse general?”

  “Ask the comedian then,” I said. “Maybe he knows the answer.”

  “Don’t move from the spot,” the GI ordered.

  Two rows of white teeth smile at me suddenly. Good white American teeth. Suddenly I don’t care about the password. I’m tired. The scent of pines is in the air. I don’t know whether the wind is blowing. The men are still talking it over. Did the comedian know the right answer? It seems he did, because I climb into the jeep, and we take off again.

  It’s too cold to talk. If you stick your nose in your scarf, the edge of your helmet touches the collar of your overcoat, and you breathe warmer air …

  “Here we are.” I open my eyes. Funny, very funny …

  “Tomorrow early, six o’clock.” Okay, Okay!

  We’re in Nancy. … It’s darker than in a tunnel. Railroad artillery is pointed at us every night. There’s no point in putting the lights out because they seek out their targets during the day. But, after all, it’s war, and we must respect
the blackout. These guns. You’d think they’d come out of another war. Their noise can drive you crazy. In the rooms, there are camp beds for our sleeping bags. That will be more comfortable than on the floor.

  We drink Calvados, I vomit in the toilet.

  I’ll get used to it, despite the difficulties, because it’s the best way to protect yourself against the cold and avoid a stay in the military hospital. So I continue to drink Calvados on an empty stomach. I would rather vomit than be hospitalized. Otherwise, what am I afraid of? I’m afraid, period. A funny feeling. Fear of failing. Fear of being unable to endure this way of living any longer. And everybody will say, smiling, “Of course, of course, that was an absurd idea in the first place.” I can’t confide my fear to anyone.

  I must keep up the morale of my small troupe so that we, in turn, can keep up the GIs’ morale.

  “Hey, you, we’ve received orders for you. You’re to report to Forward Six. The general wants to see you.”

  I’m in for a thorough chewing out. We’re not allowed to arrive in Nancy after dark. But we can’t help it. I’ve got a fierce headache. I walk behind my guide. His MP armband is wet because of the rain. He shows me how to get to the general. In the dark. I prefer that to any other kind of instruction. I’ll manage to find him. My French is helpful when I run into natives—shadows darker than the night. I lose my way twice, but then I’m finally sitting on a low divan before General George Patton who is pacing back and forth; his boots crunch, his belt crunches. He looks like a tank too big for the village square. His remonstrances are not too severe; he even shows a certain forbearance. I’m to describe for him the problems we run into.

  Patton never demanded that I visit hospitals. He knew that I was “needed on the front,” as he put it. This decision suited me fine, as I’m utterly unfit to infuse courage or hope in others. I’m too tenderhearted. It’s only with difficulty that I can keep back my tears, and the wounded notice that immediately. “It’s not that your girl friend is not writing you, it takes a long time for the army post office personnel to locate the wounded.” Lies of this kind stick in my throat.

  It was different in the field hospitals. Here you could do something, be useful. I’ve too much respect for soldiers to tell them fairy tales, such as, “The war will soon be over” or “You’re not as seriously wounded as it seems.” I can’t endure pain in the eyes of the bedridden, the despair in their voices, their frail arms around my neck. Perhaps Patton had sensed that. I remained at the front for as long as I was attached to the Third Army.

  Sleepily, I lookup at Patton.

  “One more condition: You’ve got to be back at your quarters before dark.” Although half asleep, I try to keep my eyes open. “I’ll see to it that you get the password every morning before you leave the quarters.”

  He strides, rattling across the creaking floor, lifts me like a feather, and has me brought to my quarters in his command car.

  I sleep deeply, almost until dawn. We have to be off. No password. Still, Patton had promised us one. Again we drive through the forest, the cold cuts into our faces. Hot coffee awaits us at our destination.

  We give four performances a day, always under enemy fire. Some K rations and coffee, always coffee. Night falls. Still no password. What should we do? Drive through the forest back to Nancy? We’re back to square one.

  “One of you get out and identify yourself.”

  This time, it looks as though it’s really all over for us. Once again, I am pushed out of the jeep.

  The GI with the gun looks at me. “Oh, it’s you. Everything’s all right,” he says.

  It’s beyond my understanding. He lets us through. We return to our quarters.

  “The password?”

  “…”

  “If you don’t know it, how did you get to Nancy?”

  “And what is the password?”

  “Right. As a matter of fact, I’ve got news for you. It’s cheesecake.”

  General Patton had kept his promise.

  He had a great sense of humor and an understanding of the GIs’ sense of humor. Patton was a great man. I was still with him when thousands of German soldiers surrendered, and there wasn’t enough barbed wire to fence them in. They had voluntarily become prisoners, but they had to be put somewhere.

  Patton was advancing so swiftly that nobody, not even an order from the General Staff, could stop him. Finally, it was decided to cut off his gasoline supplies.

  “It seems,” he said to me, “that an American-Russian agreement has established the borders where Americans and Russians are to meet.”

  General Patton was about to go beyond this border, which is quite understandable when you’re close on the enemy’s heels. It’s difficult to stand still when you’re going full speed, and the road ahead is all clear.

  But he was forced to stay put. No more gasoline. He took me (as interpreter) with him to the foul smelling camps. German generals in uniform saluted him from twenty steps away. I shuttled between Patton and the generals, transmitting messages. Patton wanted to know all about troop movements, the number of soldiers, tanks engaged, equipment, etc.

  Each time I left, he bade me good-bye very politely. Without him, the Third Army would not have been what it was.

  I still have the revolver he gave me. After the war, I hid it when I arrived at LaGuardia Airport. We had to give up all the precious Lugers, all the weapons we had gathered during the war, but we did so reluctantly and under pressure.

  We took off from New York during a hailstorm. We had received survival instructions in case we had to make an emergency landing on water on this unforgettable night, the most improbable of nights to take off, after all this waiting.

  Huddled closely together in the damp fuselage we had set out for an unknown destination; our instructions were sealed. We were allowed to open them only after takeoff, and read: “CASABLANCA.”

  This word dispelled all our fears. It was really Europe, and not the Pacific. Although we had been almost sure that we were bound for Europe, we were relieved to read “Casablanca” in black and white. And we rose higher through the hailstorm.

  I was in an airplane for the first time. I no longer know today whether this was also true for my fellow passengers. Fatigue overcame us, we fell asleep. From time to time, we would awaken and repeat the security instructions: “In the event of an emergency landing on water, the rubber raft is over there, the radio apparatus over here, the K rations here, the flares there,” and so on.

  The soldiers crammed together in the plane had not yet seen combat; they came fresh from the peaceful training camps. Up till now they had enjoyed typical American nourishment and slept on American soil in clean, soft beds. In the flames of the cigarette lighters, you could see the fear in their faces. Nobody spoke—all we heard was the throbbing of the motors.

  Casablanca. I knew this city only from films. Mysterious, fantastic, like a picture in a book read a long time ago. During the flight, we—that is, the group to which I had been assigned—didn’t get to know each other well, but later we were to become like a family. Danny Thomas, a young comedian “with a future” constantly cracked jokes, the tenor snored lightly in his sleep, the accordionist held his whisky bottle close to himself, and Lynn Mayberry the Texan lady, was wide awake after a few hours of sleep. At that time, there were no jets, so the flight was a very long one.

  Abe Lastfogel, who directed theatrical activities on the front, had lavished special care on our crowd, so as to assure “a good performance” on the stages, as he liked to emphasize. He worked day and night; he was fantastic. “Danny Thomas has made a very promising start in Chicago,” he explained to me. “I think he’ll be a star one day. But I would like to have him in your group for another reason; he’s a swell guy. We, you and I, realize the importance of our jobs. So, no hams. For your sake, but also for the army’s sake. You’ll have to perform in Camp Meade before the censor, but once you get the green light, there’ll be no further reviewing or rewriting
.”

  Abe Lastfogel also told me that Danny Thomas had an engagement at a nightclub in the United States, and could stay with us for only six weeks. As for myself, I was prepared to stick it out until the end of the war. I saw no reason why I should return to America, once I was “on the spot.” Many didn’t believe me. They didn’t think I would last for so long.

  The program was flawless. Danny cracked his jokes; I sang a couple of songs, together we performed some sketches written for us by celebrities like Garson Kanin and Burgess Meredith. We also executed a mind-reading trick I had already performed with Orson Welles in front of GI recruits. The Texan Lynn Mayberry had her own number. We could perform on trucks or tanks, since we didn’t need a stage. We gave four or five performances a day, and like nomads, we would go in a jeep from one unit to another. In fact, our accordionist was a real Gypsy. I’ve always loved the sound of the accordion, and unlike the tenor, I didn’t miss the piano at all.

  Abe Lastfogel always knew where we were. God only knows through what miracle he always managed to find us. He had taken on a formidable task. To organize hundreds of performances for the Armed Forces, to combine the different talents, to choose the artists, to prepare them for their acts, and in addition, he also had taken on the responsibility for the morale of the troupe. And he did all this with enormous generosity, he dedicated all his time and energies to this task. To this day, I say, “Bravo, Mr. Lastfogel!”

  The performance was approved by the censorship authorities in Camp Meade, and the waiting began, since at first we had to remain in New York. We all had code names.

  Finally, we landed in Casablanca. No lights on the runways. Today, since I’m slightly more familiar with flying, I’d be scared to death. But, at that time, with my incredible naiveté, I contented myself with following the example of my fellow passengers and fastened my seat belt.