Marlene (13 page)

Maria loved America from the very start, above all California. She practically lived outdoors, and she was happy. During the day I worked on my film, then I came home, cooked, and read her bedtime stories like every mother. It was a pleasant life for all of us, even for the nursemaid, Becky, and my housemaid, Resi. I took care of the cooking and everything was as it should be.

We would walk to the Pacific to swim and to watch the sunset, go on the pier for a ride on the annual fair's roller coaster, eat crabs, eat some more, play catch on the beach before returning home, tired but overjoyed at the thought of the ritual phone call to Berlin after which we would all go to sleep.

Maria was happy as only children can be; she didn't miss her mother tongue as much as I did, since she was too young to appreciate its value. She spoke fluent English, and the eternal California summer invigorated her. She swam in the pool, played tennis beautifully, brimming with health and bronzed by the sun.
She learned to read and write without a teacher; in short, she was at the right place at the right time. If Hollywood had not been to her liking, I would have returned to Germany. No film, no fame can be more important than a child's feelings and sensibilities. I was there in the morning, I was there in the evening.

Maria was an industrious, brilliant pupil—and also able to judge grown-ups. She was eager to learn, a joy to all of us.

She was also very beautiful. I took hundreds of photos of her in all kinds of outfits, in bathing trunks, in a swimsuit, in a dress in front of the Christmas tree, in summer light, in pants, in a shirt, wearing a baseball cap, dressed for Halloween …

Hollywood in no way disturbed us. As soon as the news got around that I loved being with my child, we were left in peace. The sight of airplanes writing my name in the sky one evening left me cold, a reaction that must have offended all those who had worked hard over this publicity stunt. I did find it pretty, however. My daughter and I looked up at the night sky for a moment and then returned to our reading while the airplanes continued to paint their letters on the clouds.

My daughter said: “Look, the stars are shining through your name.” The sky was star-spangled. But I simply could find little to relish in this much vaunted example of “fame” so important in the motion-picture business.

The memory of this evening calls to mind a question that interviewers have asked me probably a thousand times: “Do you believe in astrology?”

I have often read that I will not board a plane or venture on the street without first consulting my astrologer. That, of course, is pure nonsense, although astrology has always interested me, even as a young girl. But I've never deeply concerned myself with it.

Lexicographers define astrology as a pseudoscience. I don't agree with the definition that Webster gives: “Divination that treats of the supposed influences of the stars upon human affairs and of foretelling terrestrial events by their positions and aspects.” The expression “human affairs” disturbs me. I would prefer “human beings.”

Fine, one can discuss the nature of this influence, but I simply
can't get into my head how one can fundamentally deny or so arrogantly dismiss it.

In school we learned that the moon attracts the earth's water masses—ebb and tide are directly related to it. Also nobody argues with a peasant or a gardener who knows when the moon is “favorable” for sowing or planting. Nobody denies the effect of the full moon on the sleepwalker, nor does anyone deny the little known fact that the police increase their alertness on the night of a full moon. The moon is known as an instigator of riots to the New York police. On full moon nights the number of police on duty is doubled not just out of concern for the security of sleepwalkers but also because of the awareness that human feelings are more impressionable than usual and more calls than usual come over the emergency hot line.

Astrological investigations have found out more and more about the powerful energies released by the stars. But let me be plain about this: Astrology as it exists and is practiced today, is not a profound science. The only area in which it has its justification and can be very helpful in our lives are the character studies that some great astrologers have developed. When you have to deal with many people at work and in personal relationships, it's helpful to know under what constellation a particular individual was born. The ascendant is more difficult to determine, though in professional relations it is of lesser importance (not so for lovers, of course!). Knowing zodiacal signs helps to save energy when you face a Leo (don't dare contradict him or her) or have to deal with a dominant Taurus, and you can consider yourself lucky to have an Aquarius as a friend or a boss—just to mention a few examples.

In short, what conceit to think that we humans, composed of the same elements as the rest of the world, are preserved from forces whose effects are perceptible everywhere. Perhaps one day we shall know everything about the influence of the stars. For the time being we can only make conjectures, but there is no doubt about their mysterious and at times overwhelming effect. Although we cannot clearly explain the origin of these forces, we should not be so brazen as to completely deny their existence.

In 1932, when I was making the film
Blonde Venus
(what a
title!), I received a strange letter in the mail. The message was written neither by hand nor on a typewriter. The words had been cut out of newspapers and pasted on a sheet of paper. The message filled me with fear and horror: It was a threat to kidnap my daughter.

From that moment on, every morning I would take her to the studio with me. And as always von Sternberg protectively took over. His film took up most of his time, but now he actively engaged himself with all his energies in a dark, secret scheme to frustrate the plans of the gangsters.

I wasn't even allowed to notify the police, which completely confused me. I was deeply worried, unable to perform normally. My daughter no longer left my side. She would stay in the hall, seated on a little ladder, and watch me at work.

The look on the face of this child, who rose above all the dangers and splendidly asserted her strong personality, was a lesson to all of us. Maria knew about the kidnap threat hovering over her. I had told her everything. She remained calm, and the peaceful expression on her face also helped to reassure me. I believe Maria inherited this courage from her father. She is braver than I. She slept on the floor of her room near her governess. I would roam through the house, converse with the men hiding behind the bushes in the garden, make coffee for all of them and wait impatiently for the day when my husband would come from Europe to help me. And, as always, he came when I needed him.

On the day the gangsters expected payment of the extortion money, my friends Maurice Chevalier and von Sternberg, as well as my husband, were stationed at the windows of the house with rifles. The police had made it clear to me that under no circumstances was I to give an order to shoot. I was a foreigner, I had to remain calm and keep my mouth shut. They would “take care of the matter.” But they got off on the wrong foot and stupidly botched everything.

Still, we managed to pull through this horrible situation and survived. Maria had kept a cool head throughout the ordeal, an extraordinary achievement in my opinion. If the “professors” and other bookworms are to be believed, in all probability she was
doomed to suffer a “trauma” for the rest of her life after this adventure. Fortunately, they are always mistaken.

The windows of the house on the corner of Roxbury Drive and Sunset Boulevard are still barred. When the bars were installed, our dreams of sun, freedom, and joy, of a carefree life were shattered. The holidays had come to a close. We were prisoners. Gone the visits to the movies, the strolls along the quiet streets of Beverly Hills while we looked up at the moon, gone the picnics to the beach on the Pacific Ocean, gone the roller-coaster rides amid laughter and shouts of pleasure during which I would hold scarves, hats, popcorn, and candy in one hand and place the other over my daughters shoulder.

From now on my job was to carry on as though everything was normal to avoid frightening those associated with my child. In my head, however, fear took on the shape of a black raven, or rather, it lay like a serpent coiled in our hearts ready to strike at any moment. But I was young and strong. Later as my daughter grew older, I was again in danger, and I nearly had a breakdown. I was hardly able to carry on and could only muster enough strength to perform the simplest chores. But at the time of this threat, I did everything to give Maria the impression that life was a bed of roses. Every day I would invent a thousand pastimes to dispel the curse of the criminals threatening my daughter.

Fear dominated me and my home, it never left me. Von Sternberg gave us advice. He held the reins firmly in hand; he took care of everything personally, even though he was shooting a new film.

This project took up his whole day (I don't know how it was with his nights). Yet he was always there, trying to calm the “hypersensitive wreck”—as we say nowadays—this woman who trembled with fear and anxiety and depended on him completely. Any other director would have retired to his villa, informed the producers that he would wait until his leading performer had recovered, and meanwhile lolled around in the sun.

Not so von Sternberg. He let me work regularly. He shot his film. He and I made this film regardless of our personal problems. It was not a great work, but a good film. Von Sternberg worked
tirelessly day and night and tried to improve it while his actors and actresses slept with the aid of sleeping pills.

I have never taken any. I needed them as little as did Maria—who enjoyed a child's deep, solid slumber. She never heard me when I entered her room quietly and left; she never once woke up when I took her in my arms and laid her next to me in my large bed. She clung to me the way I clung to her.

I was up at five o'clock in the morning, ready to go to the studio with her, to have my hair done and my tired face made up. On the way we played all kinds of games. The ride in the car was hard on us. Fear churned in my stomach, and Maria was simply allergic to this means of transportation. I always had lots of lemons with me to counter the nausea. Nevertheless, I often had the Cadillac—sixteen cylinders, no less—come to a stop so I could be sick on the side of the road.

This condition never lasted very long. The moment I stepped into the studio, my face was smooth and beautiful as it was supposed to be: I watched for von Sternberg's glance and his recognition.

When the film was finished, I kept the guards who had been Maria's companions during the horrible kidnap scare. At the beginning of the holidays they accompanied us to New York up to the ship, up to the last echo of the traditional call: “All ashore that's going ashore!” Locked up in our cabin, we were finally safe and secure. And this, too, was thanks to von Sternberg who had made all the arrangements for our departure.

Upon our return to the United States, this horrible scare still pursued us, and Maria continued her life as a loner deprived of the company of children of her own age. She had many friends, but they were all grown-ups. She learned to ride horses, with a saddle and bareback, dive, surf—and all the sundry sports native to California—always in the company of governesses and guards. And von Sternberg, of course, also kept an eye on her. Tutors came to the house and gave her instruction.

She spoke English before she could write German—her
mother tongue—but without becoming confused in the process. Her education was of no special interest to me. I was concerned only about her well-being. Von Sternberg tried several times to bring up the problem of her education, but I was as stubborn as a donkey. Later I took Maria to Switzerland where she was to learn French, since the study of foreign languages was the only education I thought meaningful.

In 1933 when von Sternberg wrote the script of
The Scarlet Empress,
he gave Maria the role of Catherine the Great as a child. She spoke her only line—“I want to become a ballet dancer”—in perfect English, and she would listen to all the dialogue like a professional actress. She called that “re-acting.” Von Sternberg would smile and, most unusual for him, would embrace her.

My husband was detained in France by his professional commitments, and since he came only seldom to the United States, von Sternberg (his first son was born much later) was a father and a friend to Maria. But the happiness my small family gave him was fragile and surely not real in his eyes. At first I didn't understand his feelings. Certainly my own “emotional” shortcomings were sad and distressing. This was an area where I was still quite immature. I simply didn't know how to read certain subtle signals. In fact, I tried to pretend they didn't exist … but who knows?

I cannot repeat often enough how young and stupid I was. What I most regret is my inability at that time instantly to recognize intellectual superiority. Why “instantly”? Well, because your eyes will open when you find yourself in the presence of an extraordinary person. I was raised with this principle and have never deviated from it. But, unfortunately, I have not always unconditionally followed it in my private life, and von Sternberg had to pay for it. My entourage, furthermore, contributed to deepening the misunderstanding. Becky, my daughter's governess, and Resi, my housemaid, had a hard time adjusting themselves to American customs that they found silly. And who was the recipient of their wailings and lamentations? Von Sternberg, of course! He always found himself again in the role of family head, representing the real mentor who was still abroad. He was the one who
assumed all responsibilities and had to listen to the often unjust and ridiculous complaints: The bread didn't taste like it did in Germany; American priests celebrated Mass differently …

On my arrival in the United States von Sternberg had given me a Rolls Royce convertible (by the way, it can be seen in
Morocco
) and hired a chauffeur. I was not allowed to drive the car. Some say—and it's not a bad idea!—that men resort to this trick to prevent a woman from going off secretly by herself.