Marlene Page 23

  The plane made a bumpy landing, and the motors came to a sudden stop. Soldiers stormed the cabin.

  “Who are you? …To which unit do you belong?”

  The men from the base didn’t know what they were supposed to do with us. This disturbed them.

  “Let’s just wait here calmly,” I said to Danny and the other members of the troupe. “After this long trip, we don’t want to make trouble on our arrival.”

  Danny agreed. We waited. The night was cold, or perhaps it seemed colder because we were so tired. Finally a colonel showed up and said that nobody had been told of our arrival, but that he would look around for quarters for us.

  We left the plane and climbed into a jeep. I wanted to see the French coast, the country that I loved and that was occupied by the enemy, the country that we would free when the time came. The driver made a slight detour, and I imagined I saw France. The others didn’t understand my emotions, but they were quiet as I dried my tears.

  We visited the bases in North Africa and finally arrived at Oran. Italy was the next step from there. Meanwhile, we had gotten to know each other well. Danny beat on his helmet as though it were a bongo drum and invented witty lyrics to familiar melodies, lyrics that related our experiences, we sang, laughed, slept, ate—and we took cover.

  The first thing you learn during a raid is to hide. Everything else is simple. Three things count: eating, sleeping, taking cover. My shinbones are still scarred, souvenirs of all the GIs who, cursing, threw me on the ground. For a long time, I believed that the bullets fired from the enemy lines actually were coming from our own ranks. I learned about that. I was more afraid about my teeth than about my legs. Thank God there was always a GI nearby to give me a shove.

  Of all the soldiers I met, the GIs were the bravest. Bravery is simple when you’re defending your own country or hearth. But to be bundled off to a foreign country to fight for “God knows what,” to lose your eyes, arms, legs, and return home a cripple—that’s something quite different.

  I’ve seen these men during a battle and afterward. Long after the war I saw them again—in their homes, hobbling around on their crutches, or seated, legless, happily surrounded by their wives and children.

  I’ve seen them all. I’ve loved them all, long after the world forgot them. In this area, I have an excellent memory, and my memories are unextinguishable.

  How often I’ve met veterans, taxi drivers who talk with me and remember: “We were happier then.” Then I ask them to drive once more around Central Park, so that we can continue to conjure up remembrances of those years and feel our togetherness as before.

  I regret above all that today we no longer know any real camaraderie, that mutual trust we once felt. But it seems that the best human qualities only appear in times of crisis. Today, there are no longer any “times of crisis.” America is a country marked by great insecurity, incapable of recuperating from the alleged “shame” of the Nixon era. Politics is always dishonorable. For me, there is nothing special about the “moral crisis” that has overcome America. As though no one had ever behaved badly before!

  Never talk with soldiers if you want to live a peaceful life without nightmares and bad consciences. Don’t talk with us, because we don’t need to hear your ridiculous complaints. We thought the Second World War would certainly mean the end of wars. When we returned to the United States at the end of the war, we were greeted with stupid remarks. We were not allowed in restaurants without wearing ties, no matter how many medals a paratrooper wore on his chest. I was in the Champagne Room of El Morocco when I saw men, who had defended civilians in a war that had seemed largely irrelevant to them, actually turned back and not allowed to enter. And those civilians who had never gone through a war or ever heard the roar of a gun, sat in front of their thick steaks, staring coldly at us, as though we were pariahs.

  But I must confess this pleased us. With well-chosen words, we told them to go to hell.

  The years of “re-integration,” a beautiful phrase, followed. Personally, I needed a very long time before I “re-integrated” myself. I walked through the streets of New York and simply could not believe that the politicians were dishing out more and more lies. We would meet in the streets, I took care of the soldiers—pardon, the veterans—paid their hotel bills, and tried to alleviate their misfortunes. The government didn’t give a damn. Contrary to what we entertainers had been told to promise the soldiers after each of our wartime performances in Europe, there was no work for them. The veterans trudged through the streets.

  The bureaucracy—the eternal enemy in one’s own country.

  None of the promises were kept.

  Why do I feel so responsible? During the tough battles in the Ardennes, I had assured the soldiers that jobs would await them on their return. I gave them the same hopes I gave to myself, and I convinced them—because I was told to.

  Without noticing it, as often happens, my hands and feet froze in the terrible cold of the Ardennes. My hands swelled up like balloons. I was told to put a kind of jelly over them, which made the swollen fingers look like the paws of a rare animal. That didn’t matter to me, since I’m an incorrigible optimist. I knew nothing about the later consequences of such frostbite. It was more difficult to treat my feet. But we wore wide, comfortable combat boots, which considerably lessened the pain.

  To this day, my hands become a curious color when they get warm, and their skin is as delicate as a baby’s bottom. Sometimes I notice that someone is watching me during dinner, and I realize that my hands on the table are not a very pretty sight. I quickly hide them.

  During the war, of course, all that counted for little. What was important was to do your job—and to do it well. When I read books in which actors tell stories about their work and how they went on tour in the United States, in spite of a fever or a sore throat, I can’t help but smile. What, after all, is so important about a “performance”? Actors are really strange people.

  Not Danny Thomas! He’s a great guy—open, bright. He’s not only gifted but also a man and a gentleman at the same time—something so rare! He taught me all the secrets of his art.

  As I’ve said earlier, we had rehearsed our performances, and I felt secure about my numbers, but in Italy I was suddenly standing before thousands of soldiers, seated all over the hillsides and bombarding me with war whoops, whistles, and propositions of all kinds. This wasn’t in the program, and I didn’t know how to react.

  Danny taught me how to keep my self-control, how to impose silence on the audience. He also taught me a flair for timing, how to get a laugh, and how to stop one, and how to handle all those desperate kids who wanted to humiliate anyone who hadn’t been in combat. This hostility was the most difficult to overcome. And Danny could do it superbly. He even rescued our tenor, a very nice fellow who sang “Besame Mucho” beautifully, from their hostile mockery. He was booed by the GIs the moment he appeared onstage. For reasons unknown to us, Danny had escaped the draft.

  Danny kept everyone’s morale up, including mine. When he left us, we had to wait for his replacement, who couldn’t hold a candle to him. It wasn’t his successors fault. For who could replace Danny Thomas? In my thoughts and in my heart—nobody. He left instructions behind, which we followed to the letter. Long after he was gone from the battlefront, we remembered his words and suggestions. We sorely missed his way of singing, and drumming on his helmet, but we carried on, often telling ourselves, “Now, Danny would have done it this way or that way,” but we didn’t have our hearts in it, and we missed him very much. I don’t think he ever knew that.

  A couple of times I tried to tell him, but there were too many people standing around, and I don’t think he heard me. Will he hear me now? I wonder. Time changes things and people. He is happy and has a large family—God bless him. Danny was irreplaceable, but we survived that terrible winter, and stayed in Europe until the end of the war.

  We were sleeping somewhere in a shed. Suddenly I felt myself being shaken and I
heard voices saying, “It’s the eighty-eights.” That meant nothing to me, but I could tell something was wrong.

  “They’re pretty close by; the eighty-eights are aimed at us—clear out, clear out!”

  We crawled out of our sleeping bags—thank God we were fully dressed—and ran out of there. But where to? Someone bellowed “Run!” So we ran.

  A jeep, jump in, helmets bump against each other. For heaven’s sake, hurry up, the eighty-eights aimed at us, what’s happened? How did they break through the lines? The front of the First Army was solid. Hurry up, get going. Destination Rheims.

  “Rheims?” I ask. “But that’s way behind us.”

  “Anybody ask you for your opinion? No? Then, clear out, get going.”

  So we started moving, after I had gathered our things and all my costumes together. Had I known that enemy troops had broken through our lines, I would never have dreamed of taking my clothes with me, but we had no idea of what was going on. We figured it was just another alert, like so many we had already gone through.

  We came through. The 77th Division, composed of green kids fresh from America, was wiped out. Then General Anthony McAuliffe appeared on the scene, with his famous “Nuts!” and managed to drive the Germans back, and saved us—when I say “us,” I mean not only individuals, but whole nations, the Allies.

  The 82nd Airborne Division, under the command of General James Gavin, arrived, and everything was once more under control. But losses had been heavy. There were many wounded, many amputations, and a flood of letters went across the Atlantic to the families.

  Since we had received no instructions in Rheims, we proceeded to our headquarters in Paris. After a few days, we were again sent out on tour.

  The war continued. I no longer remember the places and towns which we passed through. But I do remember that one day, I was ordered to report to Forward Ten in the rear—Forward Ten was the code name for the commander in chief. A soldier is always reluctant to fall back. So I began to argue, and the only answer I got was, “Orders are orders!”

  The meeting took place in the Hürtgen Forest. General Omar Bradley was seated in a mobile home, as if he were waiting for me. Maps hung from the walls, the general was very pale and looked tired.

  “I guess I can trust you,” he said.

  “Thank you, General,” I replied.

  “Tomorrow we’re going to enter Germany, and, for the time being, you belong to the unit that will be the first to set foot on German territory I’ve discussed the problem with Eisenhower, and we’ve decided that it would be best if you stayed in the rear and, for example, visited hospitals. We don’t want you to be seen in Germany. If anything happens to you, we couldn’t assume any responsibility, and wouldn’t know how to deal with the criticism that would inevitably arise.”

  I was dumbfounded. “And this is why you asked me to come here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “The situation is very serious. The Germans would just love to get their hands on you. That would be a disaster.”

  I spoke in angelic tones, I pleaded with him, I did everything conceivable to tug at his heartstrings.

  Here I must mention one very important point: All generals are lonely. The GIs can disappear in the bushes with a local girl. Not so the generals. They are protected day and night, eyes follow every one of their movements. Never and nowhere can they kiss someone, or lay someone down on a haystack. They are hopelessly alone.

  General Bradley finally allowed me to enter Germany. His only conditions were that I had to have two bodyguards who were to protect me day and night. The two soldiers assigned to this detail were delighted. What luck! They had thought they would be putting their lives on the line, and now all they had to do for the duration of the war was to stick close to my heels.

  We pushed into Germany, and surprisingly, we didn’t feel at all threatened. Nor did we feel the slightest fear. The people on the street embraced me; they asked me to put in a good word for them with the Americans; they couldn’t have been friendlier. They welcomed me into my country, even though they knew I was on the other side.

  American Army regulations were different from those in the English and French armies. For example, Germans were forbidden to be in the vicinity of any American quarters, but the French and British permitted a certain coexistence.

  We were billeted in a small German cottage, whose inhabitants asked me to help them. They couldn’t find a place for their cow anywhere else; would they be allowed to come feed her? They thought I had miraculous powers and could solve all their problems. But we were pushing ahead very rapidly and had no time to worry about every peasant’s cow.

  Often I had to speak on village squares, to tell people to go home and close their shutters, and not clog the streets, so that our tanks could drive through. No interpreters were available, since the troops in the rear had not kept up with our progress. After each time I spoke, I would be asked, admiringly, what it was that I had said because the streets would be cleared instantly. I would answer, “Does it matter? They cleared out, didn’t they?”

  We had no problems in Aachen—most of the city had been destroyed (precisely the parts where we stayed). We didn’t run into any problems as we pushed through the rest of Germany, and my two bodyguards had a marvelous time.

  However, in Aachen we did get body lice. And don’t let anybody tell you that crabs can be transmitted only by another person. And don’t believe they can’t crawl. I have seen them crawl.

  One day, it was announced that showers would be installed, and that the women could use them in exchange for “some favors.” The “favors” were these: for two buckets of water, one look; for three buckets of water, two looks; for four buckets of water (which you needed if you wanted to wash your hair), some kisses and as many looks as possible.

  Star portrait by Cecil Beaton

  Star portrait by Edward Steichen

  Guest performances throughout the world: Las Vegas, 1959

  The Olympia, Paris, 1959

  Germany, 1960

  Marlene Dietrich with the Russian poet Konstantin Paustovsky in Moscow, 1964

  Jubilation in Moscow in front of the Pushkin Theater, 1964

  Jubilation in Sydney in front of the theater

  Final applause at close, Sydney

  Marlene Dietrich with Erich Maria Remarque, late thirties

  Marlene Dietrich and Jean Cabin, early forties, Paris and Hollywood

  Marlene Dietrich with Charlie Chaplin at the Comedie Franchise, Paris

  Marlene Dietrich and Noel Coward at Cafe de Paris, London, 1954

  Arrival in Paris: welcomed by Gilbert Becaud, 1959

  With Edith Piaf in Melun, 1959

  Marlene Dietrich and Jean Cocteau at the Theatre de l’Etoile, Paris, 1959

  Marlene Dietrich and Orson Welles at the Theatre de l’Etoile, Paris, 1959

  Marlene Dietrich with Burt Bacharach, the director and composer of her guest performances

  Guest performance at the Prince of Wales Theatre, London, 1963

  Guest performance at the Prince of Wales Theatre, London, 1963

  Guest performance, Malmo, 1963

  Guest performance, Warsaw, 1964

  Guest performance, Moscow, 1964

  We were ready for anything. The prospect of some soap and water after so long a time without was enough for us to forget all shyness, all modesty.

  It was on this occasion that we discovered our crabs. They didn’t make us itch or scratch. They were just there, obviously content with their surroundings, and they didn’t bother us. We traced them. Dark spots. Easy to see. Lynn Mayberry, our darkhaired Texan, ran to her tent, examined herself, came back and said that she had some, too.

  Our problem was to get rid of them. No doctor was available, since we had advanced so quickly. After a few days, I had a “brilliant idea.” I think I have never had such a stupid idea.

  “When I perform my mind-reading act and ask a GI to join me on the truck, I’ll ask him to come to
my tent with me after the performance.” This was my idea. Nothing was more sensible than asking a soldier, right?

  If you want to know which person is suitable to be used in a magic trick, you must first look for certain signs. Since this magic act brought me rather close to the audience, as often as possible I would pick a soldier wearing glasses. Men wearing glasses are not as fresh as those who don’t wear them. By that, I mean that when I hung around the men, the fellows without glasses would rather rudely grab me and not allow me to end my number in an orderly way. Eyeglass wearers, on the other hand, were less aggressive, decidedly more cooperative, and helped me to bring the performance to a proper close.

  During one of our four daily performances, the moment arrived when I had to pick an eyeglass wearer. But I couldn’t see a single pair of eyeglasses in the light of the setting sun.

  I stoically endured my discomfort. Three days went by.

  Finally, on the fourth day, I vaguely noticed something that looked like eyeglasses on the distant hillside. The sun was setting slowly, and I said, “You, there—no, not you—you. Yes, would you please come up here and help me with my act?”

  The man who got up was very tall. He jumped on the tailgate of the truck, as though he were jumping over a step ten centimeters high. While talking to him loudly, I managed to whisper, in between, “Come to my tent behind the truck, after the performance.” He didn’t bat an eye.

  I returned to my tent, told my guardian angels that I’d be having a visitor and waited. The tent lay in darkness. Only a ray of light penetrated between the entrance flaps.

  I stood and observed the odd designs and images reflected onto the dirty fabric of my dress by the sequins that caught the light and changed with the rhythm of my breathing.