Marlene Page 5

  I started receiving formal instruction all over again, now at home. I started reading Goethe again to maintain my connection with him. Then, one day I discovered Rainer Maria Rilke—I say “discovered” because in school no teacher had ever spoken about him. From then on I had a new god.

  I thought his poetry so beautiful that I learned long verses by heart and loved reciting them aloud.

  My mother gradually got over her disappointment, though she still hoped that my hand would heal. She approved of my doing lots of reading because, in her opinion, one should always be “doing something.” Tirelessly, she would repeat “do something” when she found me daydreaming. Even now I still hear her voice, and I find myself always “doing something.”

  Finally, the cast was removed. The swollen hand lay motionless on my lap. I observed it, perplexed. Telephone calls to doctors were made again, but their prognosis was not very encouraging: The hand would always remain susceptible to a recurrence. At this time I greatly missed my father, and I’m sure my mother would have liked a man at her side, a man who would have helped us come to some decision.

  Surprising as it may seem, I took my father's place—against my mother’s will.

  I decided to become an actress because the theater was the only place where one could recite beautiful texts and beautiful verses like those by Rilke, which at one and the same time broke my heart and restored my courage.

  So I set the violin aside once and for all and tried to obtain entry into the theater world. Just a try, I explained to my mother.

  At that time Max Reinhardt ran a drama school in Berlin. I showed up there for an audition. Naive as usual, I planned to play the part of the girl in Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s play Death and the Fool after I had been told by someone that Rilke was not a “theater author.”

  We had to audition before a formidable number of men sitting in chairs for what seemed to me hours on end. Then we were asked to recite an excerpt from Faust, “Gretchen’s Prayer.” When my turn came, I was told to kneel. The idea of falling to my knees in such a place was embarrassing to me, and I hesitated—long enough, in fact, for one of the teachers to throw a pillow at my feet. I didn’t understand. I looked at him and asked: “Why did you throw the pillow at me?” “So that you can kneel on it,” he answered. This confused me even more, for in my view it was ridiculous to use a pillow for this scene. Nevertheless, I recited my verses and was then told to return the next day.

  There were so many girls that I felt I was back in grade school. One of them was named Grete Mosheim, and we shyly exchanged a few words. Grete Mosheim later became a famous actress. But on that day, in that school, she tried, like all of us, to attract the teachers’ attention.

  At any rate, the fact that we were allowed to attend the Max Reinhardt Drama School was an encouraging sign for the future.

  The school’s schedule filled most of our day and in addition, there were exercises that had to be practiced at home. We were warned that we had picked “a dangerous profession,” but we were determined to accept the challenge. Dangerous or not, I was enthusiastic about it. We never regretted our work, we never regretted the long hours spent trying to understand what the teachers were talking about. We learned. Simply setting a goal for yourself is in itself already very important, distant and vague as it might be.

  When I came home every day, I would tell my mother what we thought we had achieved, or what we had tried to achieve, and my mother listened to me patiently.

  Like other young girls at that time, I knew little about what was going on outside the narrow frame of my little world. Although it might seem strange now, back then we had no interest whatsoever in politics or political events. Our attitude was diametrically opposed to that of most of today’s young people.

  My generation and, in particular, the young girls I knew, were affected only by the daily happenings in their immediate circle: the household, personal achievement, weddings, and children. Even as we grew older and inflation hit the country, our attitude didn’t change. I was aware that prices could fluctuate wildly. But like all the young girls and women of my generation, I simply took note of the fact and didn’t worry about it further. With the lightheartedness of youth, we thought all these sweeping changes were transitory and would soon disappear. Our own problems seemed to be far more important, and we weren’t in the least inclined to ask ourselves about the reasons for the insecurity that gripped Germany in the twenties. Much later, when I had finally grown up and studied this period, I realized that these events had left no mark whatsoever on me. Today I wonder whether that wasn’t a good thing after all.

  Max Reinhardt ran four theaters in Berlin. His school was located in the rooms on the top floor of one of these theaters. We never met our principal, and yet his reputation terrified all of us. He himself no longer taught, but he still picked the teachers who were to work with us.

  I can understand why Max Reinhardt, once I became famous, liked to say that he had “discovered” me. But—unfortunately—that’s not the case. I had no special talent and I knew it. Everybody knew it. Grete Mosheim and I, as well as all the other students, were content merely to attend classes and to play any of the minor roles offered here and there. Grete Mosheim was the first to stand out among us, leaving us all behind, far behind.

  Rudolf Sieber, the assistant to Joe May, who was filming The Tragedy of Love in Berlin, had an unusual idea for that time—namely, to have the roles of spectators, pedestrians, etc., played by unknowns rather than by professional actors. He contacted the Max Reinhardt Drama School and asked whether the students would be available to be the face of the crowd. The offer was enthusiastically accepted. So one lovely day, Grete Mosheim and I showed up at the studio.

  Rudolf Sieber told us he was looking for “demimonde ladies” of distinction. He decided that my friend Grete Mosheim looked “too serious” for the part. I, however, was told to appear for work the very next day. That’s how he thought of me.

  I was proud he had chosen me as “a face in the crowd,” proud that I had made it, proud not to have looked too young, too innocent, too … well, too much of everything that I really was.

  Grete Mosheim later got the leading role in the play Old Heidelberg, a terribly sentimental melodrama in which we had all hoped to get a role. But, unlike me, she was the “fine lady” type. Along with several classmates, I accompanied her to her first rehearsal, shed hot tears, and wished her lots of luck.

  We missed her but continued to follow our own paths, which led us here and there. For instance, I played the role of a maid in the first act of one play then by subway or bus I would go to another theater, where in the second act of another play I was a matron, after which I wound up the day as a prostitute in the third act of a third play. Each night was different from the night before. All of us always went from one place to another and did what was demanded of us. Naturally, we didn’t receive any money for all this. Working as extras was part of our training.

  Most theaters, compared to those of today, were small, but when I was sent to the Schumann Theater where Max Reinhardt was staging The Taming of the Shrew, I was amazed at the enormous size of the interior. It had formerly housed a circus. I was to play the role of the widow in the fifth act. I had only three lines to speak, but this was more than had ever been given to me before. The leading man complained that people in the first row could not hear me. I had to await the final verdict. Elisabeth Bergner was playing the shrew. Austrian by birth, she had later lived in Switzerland and finally settled in Berlin. She had patience with beginners and was able to convince the theater director to take us on in the cast. Naturally, there was no amplifier in this giant hall, so we tried everything “to project ourselves beyond the stage” in the way we had been taught at school: “Hold your nose, bring your voice into your head and say Ning, Nang, Neun, Neun.”

  Dr. Joseph worked tirelessly with us, without a break. With a rope laid over his shoulders, he literally pulled us through the rehearsal room while w
e struggled against it, weakly repeating: “Ning, Nang, Neun, Neun.” His method worked. We became actresses. My three lines in The Taming of the Shrew were:

  “Then never trust me, if I be afeard.”

  “He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.”

  “Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh, till I be brought to such a silly pass.”

  In Shakespeare’s original text, the widow’s role contained more lines. But they were deleted for reasons unknown to me. During the rehearsals, I familiarized myself with the rules of the theater. When my turn came, I spoke my three lines. I never got to see Max Reinhardt. We all hoped to catch just one glimpse of him. But, as always, he made himself scarce.

  I declaimed my lines with as much “resonance” as possible. Later, when I said good night to Elisabeth Bergner, I never imagined that one day she would become my friend.

  I had also come to know an actress named Anni Mewes, who would call me several times a week. Once she asked me: “Can you fill in for me in a play? All I have is one line. My dress will fit you beautifully. But don’t tell anybody about it. Just go there and make your entrance after the following dialogue. Get a pencil and write it down.”

  I really enjoyed doing favors for others. Also, it allowed me to visit many different theaters, recite many odd lines, but not many dialogues. The roles were utterly unimportant, but then again somebody had to play them.

  While I played Anni Mewes’s small role, she was probably dancing or otherwise having fun in some “night spot.” The parts were so small that no one ever caught on to our trick. Sometimes things were not so simple, and Anni had to explain certain details more exactly. This was the case with the play The Great Baritone starring Albert Basserman.

  I had to get myself ready in her dressing room, which she shared with some other actresses, and then go on stage and deliver a single line: “You are wonderful.” Anni Mewes had explained to me that it was extremely important to wear her gloves and leave the last button open. After my partner embraced me, I had to extend my hand so he could kiss the inside of my arm. I followed her instructions conscientiously.

  The only role I played worth mentioning was in George Bernard Shaw’s Misalliance. I had several lines to say in this one, and for the first time in my so-called theatrical career, I drew a ripple of laughter from the audience with the words: “But papa.”

  I also remember a comic incident from this time. The play in question was being staged by Max Reinhardt in one of his small, intimate theaters with Elisabeth Bergner in the leading role.

  She entered the stage by descending an imposing, arched staircase. Below stood a table around which sat four people playing bridge. I was one of them, and all I had to say was: “I pass.”

  As was the fashion in those days I was wearing a pale gray custom-tailored dress. When I tried it on, I was surprised to discover that it was brightly spangled with pearls and diamonds, but only on the back. When I asked about this, I was told that during the entire scene I was not to turn around, not even once, so that there was no need to adorn the front part of the dress.

  I understood and said nothing.

  I relate this anecdote to show how unimportant my roles were. Yet, because I sat with my back to the audience, I could all the better see and enjoy Elisabeth Bergner’s splendid entrance on stage via the staircase. The first word she spoke was “Damn!” I was so fascinated to hear this word spoken that I often forgot my “I pass,” but nobody noticed this. The other actors continued as though nothing had happened; nobody made mention of my omission. I was an insignificant extra (or supernumerary as they say today). So when I read the chapters that my “biographers” devote to this time where they claim that I had become a “famous actress,” I can only laugh. I was completely unknown, a mere beginner, one among hundreds of amateur actresses, just another pupil attending the Max Reinhardt Drama School.

  But I was not discontented with my lot; I was quite happy just to be in contact with great actors and actresses. I did what was asked of me, as I also always did later both in my life and in my work.

  I made still other appearances in many plays, mostly in silent roles, usually magnificently made up. As a rule, I spent more time getting myself ready than actually performing. The leading performers never spoke to us, and we were afraid of them. But we didn’t engage in any “star cult.” We observed them so attentively only because we admired their performances. Learn, learn, learn—that was our motto and our job.

  I was one of the “silent observers” in Frank Wedekind’s Pandora’s Box. Believe it or not, I knew nothing at all about the play because I appeared only in the third act. To this day, I don’t know what it is about.

  I took pains to appear older, to look like a grown woman. At home I rehearsed in one of my mother’s dresses, walking and swaying my hips like a kept woman. And every day I worked with Rudolf Sieber, with whom I was—and was to be for a long time—head over heels in love.

  I took more singing lessons, visited the Max Reinhardt Drama School, and learned a lot of classic roles I knew I would never play. I avidly learned the entire modern repertoire of ingenue roles, without, however, convincing my superiors who would make a face after the audition. Emotion-laden monologues did not suit my tone. So I had to acquire another style. I had to slip with great difficulty into the skin of another woman. I didn’t like this woman. But, being well mannered, I learned all her outrageous lines.

  There were more rehearsals, and I was ready to captivate the public with my presentation of the “femme fatale.”

  And again it was a flop. My teachers explained I was too young for this type. Another disappointment, but my zeal for work did not suffer.

  My mother was relieved when I stayed home to work or read. She didn’t particularly care about what I was doing as long as my nose was stuck in a book.

  She cared as little for “the theater” as she did for “the film.” But she put up with it all against her will, probably in the hope that I would meet someone who would break my attachment to the stage once and for all. But I was stubborn.

  Rudolf Sieber had suggested I wear a monocle so as to appear more provocative. At that time the monocle symbolized the height of the macabre.

  My mother gave me my father’s monocle that she had kept for years.

  Wearing one of her dresses, with my father’s monocle tucked in my eye, my hair done up in hundreds of curls and locks, cosmeticized by some listless makeup artist who didn’t have the slightest interest in lowly beginners, I walked on stage and took a few steps toward my future husband. I was as blind as a bat, but the monocle stayed in place. Rudolf Sieber must have laughed to himself when he spotted me in this getup. But he didn’t show it.

  He even managed to get me a small role in a film—again I had only one line. I loved Rudolf Sieber, not because he helped me but because he was blond, tall and clever—everything that a young girl longs for. The only problem was that he wasn’t at all interested in young girls.

  At that time—according to rumor at least—he was having a stormy love affair with the daughter of a theater director, a very beautiful movie actress.

  And so I suffered. Luckily for me, the scenes in the gambling casino had to be shot over and over again, and since I was a “crowd extra” I was often called to the studio. I would see Rudolf, but he never spoke to me.

  It was unthinkable to take this matter up at home. My mother had withdrawn into herself. She expressed no opinion of any kind. Nor did she ever speak of my adventures in the “world of film,” a phrase offensive to her ear. For her film and circus were one and the same thing. And the circus was the complete opposite of the life she had imagined for me. In her eyes that world would prove disastrous for a young girl of my age.

  She was so worried that she had terrible nightmares. She was afraid that I would allow myself to be misled into a sinful life and ruin myself forever.

  She did not realize that I was immune to such dangers. Although she had brought me up to be th
is way, she wasn’t at all sure she had succeeded.

  To return to my outlandish outfit: I was led to the gambling table, then Rudolf Sieber and his assistants told me what I was to do and where I was supposed to go. At times he would run up to me to give me advice. Hopelessly in love, anxiety-ridden, I would wait for these brief encounters.

  When I returned home after three days under his direction, I told my mother: “I’ve met the man I want to marry.” My mother didn’t faint on the spot or lose her composure. Instead she said to me, “If you really want that, we’ll see what we can do.” But she never allowed me to meet Rudolf Sieber outside the studio, despite his telephone calls and his invitations to dinner in a restaurant or to go for a stroll.

  Yet he didn’t give up. He came to the house to speak with my mother (after making an appointment, of course), but after this meeting she was no happier than she had been when all I did was talk about him.

  He could not know that at home I was not the same girl as at the studio, the girl with the monocle in her eye playing the most depraved prostitute. Though, of course, he knew that that was only a role. Otherwise he wouldn’t have courted me the way he did. He could see I was only bluffing. He was nice, he was gentle. He gave me the feeling that I could trust him, and this feeling was sustained during all the years of our marriage. Our trust was reciprocal and total.

  We were young. Such mutual faith back then was extremely rare in the decadent, cynical world of Germany in the twenties. Rudolf meant everything to me.

  We got married after a year’s engagement during which we were never alone. There was always a chaperone with us, always a “spy” who kept a watchful eye on us. Rudolf Sieber must have had an angel’s patience to endure all these restrictions. He never complained. On the day of our marriage, my mother placed the myrtle wreath on my head; the family members, in uniform or in civilian clothes, crowded into the church. And I, sentimental and romantic as always, wept when I looked at Rudolf who seemed so calm.