A Stranger in My Own Country (20 page)

By now it is dark, the arc lamps are burning in the deserted stations, no trains are running any more, I'm running away from my father. He is dead, I know, but he has come back to call me to account for what I
did to my mother. There's nothing frightening about him as such, my father, he looks fresh, the little goatee beard, which was white when I knew him, is now brown, he is walking quickly and easily along the street next to the railway line, intent on pursuing me. I run along the railway tracks ahead of him, trying to escape. The line has been bombed, but they have laid out large quantities of long, white roofing battens, over which I am running very fast, half flying in fact. My father has long since dropped out of sight, and as the batten-covered stretch of track starts to climb steeply I know that I must turn off, and then my father will never find me.

I enter a house and ring the bell at a door in a very dark courtyard. The door is opened by a white-haired lady in a black dress with a narrow, white ruff at the neck, who welcomes me as the representative of the owner, who has gone away. I ask for two rooms to be prepared for me to work in downstairs, and another for my secretary, but she firmly refuses my request: I must make do with the rooms upstairs. My secretary is waiting for me in the large room downstairs, with its upholstered chairs covered in a yellow cretonne patterned with little reddish flowers. I hired her in a bar, a very attractive, very tall woman, just a touch taller than me. At the time she was wearing a lot of face powder, but the powder has washed off in the meantime, revealing two little anchors, blue ship's anchors, tattooed on her pale cheeks. This woman could almost be my wife, so closely does she resemble her; she is even wearing my wife's baggy blue trousers with the embroidered anchor, and her face is the spitting image of my wife's – except that she has these two little anchors tattooed on her cheekbones. I am very disappointed. But at least I can dictate my work to her, at long last!

Once again I am climbing the broad, easy-going oak staircase leading to the glazed double doors behind which Swenda was standing. I feel very sad, I know that there is no hope for me any more. My feet are dragging, my heart is heavy. When I look up, I see Swenda looking at me through the glass in the door. I go through the door and stand before her. She just looks at me; there is nothing in her eyes, neither rejection nor entreaty, no fear and no questioning.

I take her in my arms and carry her into the back of the apartment. The doors open soundlessly before me as I advance with the woman lying inert in my arms. A pale, unearthly light, which does not come from outside, fills the rooms. I'm standing in front of a big, wide ceremonial bed, surmounted by a massive baldachin with dark, pleated drapes. The bed itself, however, looks white and cold. As I go to lay Swenda down on it, her clothes peel away and tumble to the floor, like the petals of a yellow rose falling softly and silently to the ground. I lay Swenda down naked on the cold, white bed, there she lies, her body is whiter than the sheets, and her tresses lie black upon the pillow. She gazes fixedly at me, without love and without anger. I knew her in another time, I was turned away, terrible things happened, my memories of all this are unclear, like the shadows of many a cloud that fall upon the lakes at home. I bend over Swend . . .

In 1937 I was commissioned by Tobis
¹¹⁷
to write the screenplay of a film for Emil Jannings. At the time Jannings was struggling somewhat. He was used to appearing in a couple of films a year, but recently things had not been working out too well for him, simply because he was not being offered the right material. Now all they had lined up for him was the Virchow role, and he said to me at our first meeting that the part filled him with dread: ‘They'll just have me looking down a microscope the whole time, and that's not acting, that's just looking! I want a proper part to play!' (People might recall that Emil Jannings did subsequently play the Virchow role,
¹¹⁸
because ‘our' film project fell through, for reasons that will appear later. And nobody who has seen this film about the research scientist will ever forget the moment when Jannings-Virchow caught his first glimpse of the tuberculosis pathogen through the microscope. Your heart stood still, you held your breath. This peerless actor had managed to make something as simple as ‘looking' into a tremendous feat of acting, or rather of human empathy!) Jannings, who tended to lapse into Berlin dialect when telling his stories, went on: ‘And the best thing in old Virchow's life,
these fellows won't even show it!' Jannings shot an accusing glance at his production manager, the film director Froelich
¹¹⁹
from Tobis. He was Jannings' full-time minder – you never really saw Emil without him. Jannings was something of a problem child for the film company: his every mood was anxiously observed, and everything was done, every whim satisfied, just in order to keep him sweet-tempered. ‘The thing is', Jannings went on, ‘old Virchow played around a good bit well into his old age. The old boy was a pillar of society, an Excellency and all the rest of it, but at night he would go out chasing skirt. He picked up some woman in some dive on Elsässerstrasse, or somewhere around there, a
chanteuse
or whatever they call it, and they really hit it off – big time. And then he married her, just like old Professor Unrat and his Marlene – no, hang on, she called herself Molene. But you know what I mean, Fallada! So that's the story, and the best thing about Virchow, and these fellows won't show it, they won't let me do that!' And Jannings, fat and not very tall, with his sallow complexion and soft, fleshy face, pointed an accusing finger at Froelich. ‘My dear Jannings', said the latter reproachfully, ‘why do you keep on going over the same old ground?! We've told you a dozen times that this former
chanteuse
, who now really is the widow of an Excellency, is still alive, and she would object immediately if we tried to portray her on screen.'

‘Object, my arse!' said Jannings irritably. ‘You're just too tight, that's all it is! Just throw money at the old dragon, shut her up with half a million, a million for all I care – I'll earn it all back for you! Any film I'm in, it doesn't matter how much it costs to make, I always earn it all back! Fallada, I must show you the telegrams I've received from Budapest, they're about to premiere my
Broken Jug
¹²⁰
there. People are climbing over each other to get tickets. The theatre is already booked out two weeks ahead.' And he showed me the telegrams. I knew enough about the film business, however, to know that these were the standard telegrams that every film company sends to its star, either directly or indirectly, to keep him happy – and Emil Jannings really ought to have known this himself. But he was a big child, for whom fame (even when
manufactured to order) was the breath of life, and so he preferred to believe that these bits of paper were both spontaneous and genuine.

Jannings went over to the window and raised a threatening fist. This conversation took place in the Hotel Kaiserhof,
¹²¹
which of course is just across from the Propaganda Ministry; Jannings always stayed at the Kaiserhof when he was in Berlin, and always took a suite of rooms on the top floor. ‘That's terrific, Mr Jannings!' I had said in response to the telegrams. ‘You see!' he cried, and shook his fist at the Ministry building. ‘You see! I could be the greatest actor in the world, but him over there, that little spastic,
¹²²
he begrudges me my fame! I only need to get a couple of telegrams like these and he's eaten up with jealousy! He begrudges me everything. The little creep is worried sick that I might become more famous than he is. He frets about it day and night!' Froelich and I exchanged a quick, knowing glance behind the back of the ranting thespian, and grinned. Jannings ploughed on: ‘But that other fellow, Göring – now he's something else! If I could only work under him – ! Then I'd be the greatest actor in the world! What does this fellow do, this Göring? His state company of actors is on tour in Kiel, and not a soul turns up to the performance. So what does he do? He gets into his yacht, sails up there and parks himself in the royal box. Well, from then on, of course, the theatre is packed – now that's the man for me! But as for that jealous little prick – !' And he shook his fist again. ‘But look here, Jannings', said Froelich soothingly, ‘just calm down a bit, will you! Why get yourself so worked up? Now you've got Fallada writing a marvellous screenplay for you about Iron Gustav
¹²³
. . .' Such was indeed my allotted task. But there wasn't a lot of material to work with. There was an ancient cab driver in Berlin who was nicknamed ‘Iron Gustav', because he clung with iron determination to his horse-drawn cab and refused to switch to a motorized taxi. After the Great War, in 1928, this indomitable old man had the idea of trotting off to Paris with his horse-drawn cab, at a time when the French were not exactly well disposed towards the Germans. The experiment had proved unexpectedly successful, and the old man had been lionized by the Parisians. Then he had returned home again and was forgotten.
He had long since given up his cab, and ‘Iron Gustav' was now selling postcards with his portrait on them at some railway station. He was said to have taken to drink in a serious way.

So not a lot of material to work with, and the story of his life prior to the Paris trip would all have to be made up – but that would not be a problem. ‘Fallada', Jannings implored me, ‘you're the only man who can do it. You must write me a German
Cavalcade
.
¹²⁴
A chronicle of everyday life in Germany from 1900 or so to the Paris trip. The bourgeoisie, the world war – everything. You know what I mean!' I knew very well. The call for a German
Cavalcade
was one I had heard before, the ambition to make such a film burned in the heart of every German film producer. I told Jannings I would see what I could do. I asked when it had to be finished. I got the usual film producer's answer: ‘By yesterday!' In the film business, everything is needed in a hurry. Any idea that is not acted upon immediately is effectively useless. ‘How much time do you need, then?' In my mind's eye I pictured a weighty tome – the entire Hackendahl family, with all the sons and relatives, life before the war . . . ‘Three months at least', I said. They squealed a good deal, but I would not budge. I can work incredibly fast, I can get a move on like nobody else, but what I can't do is miracles. And I don't have the gift for writing brief film synopses. I can only make up a story if I can describe things properly and go into detail. In effect, I had to write these people a fully fledged novel, which would then have to be boiled down by their own script department. It was a somewhat cumbersome procedure, but given the nature of my talent, it was the only option.

So this was the task I had been set, and since I had never seen the film
Cavalcade
, I could set about my work with no previous baggage. Of course I had to get a move on, and of course I had taken on far too much again, and of course my dear wife watched me embark on this with somewhat anxious eyes and feared I would suffer a total breakdown; but I managed it, and on schedule – in fact I delivered the text with two days to spare. In the meantime there had been another of those typical film industry crises. Rowohlt called me and told me
the director, Froelich, had lost his job.
¹²⁵
That would probably have consequences for my film project, he opined, and suggested that I ease off and take my time. Thank heavens I didn't listen to the voice of temptation, and sure enough, two or three days later Froelich called me in person and inquired anxiously how my work was going. In response to my surprised question – surely he had lost his job? – he replied with a laugh: yes, indeed he had, but now he was back at his desk again! I never heard anything more about this palace revolution at Tobis – not that I really wanted to. In the film business, even more than in the literary world and the theatre, everything can just change overnight! Anyone who has just reached the top is already on his way down: eagerly pursued projects are junked: everything's in constant motion, just like the movies themselves.

So I had delivered the goods, and now waited for the outcome – the schoolboy was keen to know what mark he'd got. I didn't have long to wait. First came a telegram from Emil Jannings, who just thanked me effusively for creating such a splendid character for him to play, then came a letter from Tobis, which said much the same thing in its own quieter way. (I mention this not to enhance my own reputation, but simply to throw more light on the events that followed.) My job as such was now finished, but when is anything ever really finished in the film-making business? They wanted me to attend various meetings with the film's director, so I travelled to Berlin and sat in. The meetings were boring, but they gave me an opportunity to get to know Emil Jannings a little better as a person, and that was a real delight! He was a mass of contradictions, was Jannings. For example: he was generous to a fault with his personality, he gave freely of himself in conversation, and was never too lazy to tell a story and amuse his guests. But in money matters he was just plain stingy. I have never seen him offer his guests anything, not even a cigarette. That just didn't happen with him. I am a passionate smoker myself, I actually can't think unless I am smoking, and there we were, five or six of us at a script conference, all sitting around rather morosely, while the sentences dripped haltingly from the mouths of the assembled men, because none of us was smoking. In the end I couldn't
stand it any longer, I took my cigarettes out of my pocket and said to Jannings: ‘Do you mind if I smoke, Mr Jannings?', and lit up regardless. ‘But of course, my dear Fallada!' replied Jannings. ‘I shall join you!' – and promptly lit a cigarette himself. A sigh of relief went round the table, everybody reached into their pockets and lit up, and now the words flowed more freely, the thoughts came more easily! And it was always the same: Jannings would ring for service, and when the waiter came (we were meeting in the Hotel Kaiserhof) he would order a bottle of mineral water and ask: ‘Would anyone else like to order something?'