Marlene Page 24

  Suddenly a huge silhouette appeared at the entrance to the tent.

  “Ma’am,” said a voice.

  The man had removed his glasses.

  “Good evening,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”

  He was silent. I mustered all my courage. “I don’t know how to put this to you.” Then I waited.

  “You don’t know where we could go?” he asked finally.

  “No, that’s not it. I just would like to tell you that I’ve got crabs.”

  Quick as lightning, he replied, “That doesn’t bother me.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “So, what’s it all about?”

  “What can I do to get rid of them?”

  “Is that all you wanted?”

  “Yes.”

  Then he came toward me. Closer, he looked even taller. He was a Texan, and Texans are a breed unto themselves. The reflections of light from the sequins played on his face. He looked angry.

  “Didn’t they give you any de-lousing powder? You can get that anytime.”

  “I know, but I thought it was to be used only against ordinary lice.”

  And he, growing angrier, “Spray it over you and don’t wash.”

  Silence.

  “And if you want to know how they die,” he erupted, “the powder paralyzes their jaws so they starve to death.”

  I remained rooted to the spot. He bowed low, turned around on his heel, and pushed the entrance flap aside. I had to give another performance, and hoped I would see him again, but he had disappeared forever. I’m sure he was furious. Texans certainly aren’t used to that kind of conversation with a woman, especially not in the middle of a forest in Europe, while all of his buddies were certainly waiting to hear a detailed description of a most improbable conquest.

  We stayed quite awhile in Aachen. We lived in a bombed-out house, bathtubs were suspended in midair, but at least there was a roof under which we could spread our sleeping bags. There’s something reassuring about a roof.

  The war in Europe was marked by endless rain. Mud was everywhere, moisture was everywhere, and crept into our clothing—and then there were the rats.

  Rats have icy paws. You’re lying on the bare floor in your sleeping bag, the blanket pulled up to your chin, and these creatures run over your face, their paws as cold as death; they give you the jitters.

  Then the bombs—are they V-1s or V-2s—also scare the pants off you, and you don’t know which way to turn.

  The rats in Aachen gave us no peace. They came every night. I sprayed a kind of wall of de-lousing powder around me—in vain. This way, at least, I got rid of the crabs—and of my Texan friend.

  There was a Texas division in the army. My God, how proud they were of their origins. When they took over a city, they would teach the children that the United States was part of Texas. But no matter how proud and arrogant they were, they did a damned good job during the war. There aren’t men like this anywhere else. And nobody had better try to contradict me.

  Once I said to a Texan soldier, “You’re beautiful,” and he answered me, “Ma’am, you should never say that to a man.”

  “And what should I say to a man?”

  “In Texas,” he replied, “the most you can tell a man is that his pants fit him well.” Well, that’s quite true, their pants do fit them well.

  They are men who inspire trust and confidence, they are dynamic. Texas is an immense state. That explains why there were so many soldiers in the Texas division. Glory and honor to you all! I embrace them, and send them all my love, from far away, through space and time. I think there’s a photo in which I appear with this Texas division, somewhere in Europe.

  Back to the rats. Our stay in Aachen dragged on. The Red Cross nurses helped as well as they could. They had made doughnuts, and we helped distribute them to the liberated POWs and the survivors of the concentration camps.

  Rats everywhere. Now we put wet towels over our faces so that these creatures would run off somewhere else. They didn’t like “alien” coldness, they liked only their own cold paws in their own cold environment.

  Apropos of rats, one day we were performing in a real movie house in Aachen. It was cold, as usual. The proprietor of the place came over to me and asked if I would like a cup of hot coffee.

  All the others said, “Don’t take it, it might be poisoned.”

  “No, they would never dare,” I answered and drank the coffee.

  Then I asked the man, “Why did you offer me the coffee? After all, you know I’m on the other side.”

  “Of course, I know that you’re on the other side, but”—and he sighed—“but you are also the Blue Angel …”

  All that because of a film!

  I was able to see the same reaction everywhere in Germany. Perhaps the Germans had not forgiven me, but they knew me, begged me to help with their problems, something for which they cannot be reproached.

  I was born a German, and I shall always remain German, regardless of what has been said about me on this score. I had to change my citizenship when Hitler came to power. Otherwise, I never would have done it. America took me into her bosom when I no longer had a native country worthy of the name, and I’m thankful to her for it. I’ve lived in this country and have abided by its laws. I’ve become a good citizen, but in my heart I’m German.

  German in my soul? Just where is this soul? German because of my education. That I can’t deny, the traces cannot be overlooked. German philosophy and German poetry are my background. I would never have believed that roots are important. Today I know they are. You can love your adopted country out of gratitude and also because you gradually let yourself be infused by the values of its people, by its true aims, its sense of humor, its feelings.

  Thus, new roots are planted alongside the old ones.

  We ended our tour in Aachen as planned and returned to our barracks to report that everything had proceeded according to plan. But the war was far from over. Since we were the fifth wheel on the wagon, we were shipped around here and there, like many others, civilian or soldier.

  President Roosevelt died, and we had to comfort saddened soldiers who were as overwhelmed by this loss as we were ourselves.

  The news was given to me in the middle of a performance. I was used to difficult jobs—when you’ve seen lots of men die, you become hard inside and out. We interrupted the performance, and I went up to the soldiers who sat quietly in front of me on the slope of a hill. We talked for a long time, until darkness fell, then scattered, to return to our duties.

  We advanced as far as Holland, where many more V-1s and V-2s were being dropped than ever before. These rockets were somewhat different from ordinary bombs: They struck without warning. It was impossible to foresee them or to protect yourself from them. Only our optimism helped us survive. Only hope kept up our morale—hope and Calvados. It made life seem rosy, and it also helped us sleep.

  In the north, we performed before British troops. We varied our jokes a bit since, in comparison to the Americans, the English are “rather dense,” or so it was said. But they certainly weren’t that way on the battlefield.

  The Canadians were the liveliest of all. We met them a lot in Italy. Every time there was some kind of trouble and we heard that the Canadians were coming to help us, everybody was pleased, including the General Staff. They were dependable. They had a combination of the best American and British qualities. They exhibited a British stoicism when they were entrusted with an impossible mission. And they didn’t swear as much as the Americans.

  In 1944 we experienced a sad Christmas, as well as the return of the lice. But by now we were ready for them, and knew how to get rid of them. Nevertheless, we were sad. Because of Christmas and because of the lice. We all felt down, exhausted. It was becoming harder for us to perform with the same enthusiasm as before. Although I had learned a lot, I still wasn’t as good as Danny Thomas. But we had to make the soldiers happy.

  The German counteroffensive had been
driven back, and we pushed on ahead. But how long would this war last?

  Back in my early childhood, I had learned that God doesn’t fight on any army’s side. So there was little point in praying. Nonetheless, before every battle prayers were read, all kinds of incantations were recited, staged by all sorts of preachers.

  We attended these ceremonies, and I saw how the soldiers stood in place, as though they couldn’t believe their ears. “You will be fighting.” I couldn’t believe it either, but I counted for nothing.

  The Jewish sermons were the most convincing, for the Old Testament says, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” This is an appropriate farewell address for a man setting out for bloody combat. I have always wondered how Christians reconcile the injunction “Turn the other cheek” with war.

  But they all went, with or without prayer.

  Since then, I’ve given up any belief in God, in a “light” that leads us, or anything of this sort. Goethe has said, “If God created this world, then he should review his plan.” Probably it’s a matter of a botched plan.

  The confusion continued to the day we won the war. Everything had come to an end; we slept in stables, tramped through villages. We waited for instructions that never came. Once again, as at the beginning of this whole thing, we waited. We were worn out, discouraged. All around us were dirty, pitiful figures waiting to be discharged and sent home. Some were sent home, others to the Pacific. The war continued there. As for us, we just sat around. We had our K rations, coffee, sleeping bags—and we waited for orders. We slept. Now we could sleep peacefully. We were sure that someone was on guard outside.

  We had to be repatriated when the war in Europe came to an end. A large-scale organization was created for this purpose: Thousands of planes came to return thousands of soldiers to their homes, an air armada to bring back equipment, documents, etc.

  We waited until it was our turn.

  We listened to the radio—news from the Pacific—and spoke about our gloomy future. We stuck it out. The fact that we had to rely on ourselves was difficult to endure. No joking could banish our uneasiness. It was May, but our quarters in Chatou were ice cold. We were aware of our insignificance and didn’t expect “orders” from anybody.

  “Fall in, by twos!” Familiar sounds, then, finally: “Destination: LaGuardia Airport, New York. Group number so and so, get ready.” God knows, we were ready.

  We didn’t say a word in the plane that brought us back to the United States. These men had won the war, but they couldn’t celebrate it. The war in the Pacific lurked in the back of their minds. The plane was jam-packed; we hardly had room for our legs and feet. Nothing to eat. No laughter, none of the usual joking. We were all together for the last time, but already far from each other, like civilians.

  The return flight was longer and more quiet than we thought it would be. The victors were returning to their homes, and, how ridiculous, our biggest worry was that nothing should go wrong on the flight. Yet, deep within, the men were happy, only they couldn’t show it. They were thinking of the buddies they had left behind in simple graves; they were bitter. Americans are a naive people. They have not experienced war on their own soil since the Civil War. They know it only from history books. They react like children when they are in the presence of a real tragedy. Their naiveté makes them almost saintly.

  We landed at LaGuardia. It was raining—of course! Nobody was there to welcome us. We dragged our baggage along, were searched from top to toe, and had to give up our precious war souvenirs. Then we found ourselves penniless at the taxi stand and didn’t know where to go.

  Anybody in the United States who has no money is really a nobody. The scum of the earth. We explained that we had just come back from the war—in vain. People didn’t care. Nobody wanted to listen to us. “We’re too busy, ask somebody else.”

  Finally, I talked a taxi driver into helping us, with the promise of the biggest tip of his life, if he would take us to the St. Regis.

  The taxi driver believed me and drove us to the hotel.

  “Good day, Miss Dietrich. Good day. Good day.”

  “Can you pay the taxi for me? I don’t have a cent.”

  “Of course. All you have to do is sign a blank check. A big tip for the driver?”

  “Yes, a big tip.”

  “A nice suite as usual?”

  “Yes. And then I need some cash.”

  “Of course. Write out the check, and I’ll have the money brought to your room.”

  There we stood with our dirty field packs at the elegant reception desk of the Hotel St. Regis. The war was not yet over, but here you got the impression that no one had ever heard of it.

  Since the hotel employees didn’t know my financial situation, they accepted the check I wrote out. I made it out for a hundred dollars. I don’t know why I didn’t make it out for more. I was really unable to act without someone telling me what to do, and I had been out of America for so long that a hundred dollars seemed like a fortune.

  We went upstairs, and my buddies took baths, one after the other. I ordered food. Delicious American food that nourished my guests when they finished their baths. We decided to say goodbye before sunset, since everybody wanted to get home before dark.

  The farewells were very sad, but there were no tears or sighs—we had experienced too much for that.

  I remained behind, alone in my suite at the St. Regis and waited for the maid to clean the bathtub, so that I could take a bath, the first in many months. My God, how lonely I felt! Too early to phone California, and an inconvenient hour for the offices in New York.

  And what would I tell them anyway? That I was back from the war? Who was interested in the war?

  The telephone rang, it was my agent, Charlie Feldman. I had tried to reach him while the others were taking their baths.

  “Please,” he said, “don’t write any checks. They won’t be covered.”

  “I couldn’t know that,” I answered.

  “Hang up, let me give it some thought, I’ll call you back.”

  I took a bath. I lay in bed, stared at the ceiling and waited—for what? Suddenly I no longer had any roots! Where were they? In the war that had raged in Europe?

  I was utterly confused. I had already accustomed myself to being a resident alien and then becoming an American citizen. Now I had to adjust and re-integrate myself all over again. What I mean is that I came back to America, a country that had not suffered in the war, a country that really didn’t know what its soldiers had gone through over there on foreign soil. My hatred of “carefree” Americans dates from this time.

  It shouldn’t be difficult for anyone to imagine that I was not greatly loved in the fall and winter of 1945.

  The more soldiers returned from the Pacific, the fewer jobs were available in the United States. We went through the streets, and everything revolted us. We no longer felt a sense of purpose. I’m not speaking of myself but of the sympathy I felt for these men. It was a difficult time for all of us. For us, who were completely with them in mind and heart.

  The hospitals (to get to them, you had to travel all over New York as far as the suburbs) were filled with wounded soldiers, whom we patted and comforted, whom we read to, and once again promised that their wounds would heal. Again the same lies, the same dialogues of the “come dance with me …” kind. The worst cases were the amputees. It was absolutely senseless to say “soon we’ll dance again,” but they smiled.

  Sad, sad experiences of the postwar period.

  I needed a whole year to “re-integrate” myself; I, who had come through it unscathed, except for my frozen feet and hands. A whole year of despair and anger, a year in which I had to take insults, unintentional for the most part, but all the more shocking, because they came from well-fed citizens of the United States who didn’t have the slightest notion of what was going on outside their borders. At that time I naively believed that every American had heard of bombs, destruction and death, but I was to discover that thi
s was the case with only a few. Above all, they didn’t want to be reminded of the existence of the war.

  I’m not talking about the families of the soldiers who had fought at the front, but of people who had never experienced war, whose daily routines had never been shattered by the war, who had always preserved their inner peace.

  This expression “inner peace” reminds me of an experience during the war. I was in Italy, in Naples to be exact, at the Hotel Parco.

  A friend of mine, the actor Jean-Pierre Aumont, had contacted me through official channels, and I received permission to pay a visit to the French unit to which he belonged.

  He had come to pick me up in his jeep on the previous day. He gave off a peculiar odor.

  “I slept under a tank next to a dead Senegalese soldier,” he explained to me. “You must excuse me.”

  We heated some water and brought it to my “room with bath” so he could take his first bath in weeks.

  Jean-Pierre Aumont was a well brought up young man, very educated, with an extraordinary sense of humor.

  We set out before dawn. He’s a Capricorn, like myself, so we knew what we were doing. At least we thought we knew—Jean Pierre Aumont didn’t have a map at hand. Soon, after a few hours, we were stuck in the mud. The jeep wouldn’t move forward or backward.

  As the genuine Frenchman and soldier that he was, he said, “Let’s leave it here.” From the distance we could hear the rumble of guns.

  So we left our bemired jeep and trudged in the direction of the river, which we had to cross to arrive at our destination. Before us stretched a long strip of land. White ribbons fluttered in the wind. Detached from their poles, they swayed like clothes on a line. We knew that this was a mine field and the only way to the river. As far as we could see, all the bridges were blown up. How were we to get across to the other bank?

  “Listen, Jean-Pierre,” I said to him. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. So, I’ll go in front of you, as best I can, and you follow right in my footsteps. Then I’ll be blown to bits before you set foot on these filthy contraptions.”

  You should have seen how we argued with each other in this no-man’s land. For Jean-Pierre, of course, loved to argue. He said, “I’ll go first, and you follow in my tracks.” No sooner said than done. He showed me how to do it.