Marlene (14 page)

I never took off secretly. Moreover, I have never felt any such desire. I felt comfortable in this peaceful, agreeable life, a serenity unknown to the power-seeking women (conceivably their number is ever increasing today) who buzzed around Hollywood at that time.

On April 1, 1933, in Germany it was publicly announced that all Jews occupying positions—often for many years—in large or small institutions and enterprises were to be dismissed. Ufa, a major film producer, was headed primarily by Jews, among them Erich Pommer and R. Liebman.

Shortly after this announcement someone approached my husband, who had been assistant to many directors and who worked for Ufa, and offered to put him in charge of the firm and its studios in Babelsberg, a suburb of Berlin. My husband replied that he would think it over and discuss the offer with his lawyer and then meet with his visitor again on a mutually convenient date.

He knew that as an “Aryan,” tall and blond, he corresponded to the ethnic type the Nazis wanted to see lead and represent their world famous film company.

On the same afternoon my husband went to his bank and withdrew all the money from his account. Then he went home, threw some clothes into a suitcase, took his passport out of his desk, drove to a gas station, and before darkness fell he was already on the way.

He drove for a while, stopped on a secondary road, smeared his license plate with dirt and stopped again only to refuel. He
didn't roar over the superhighways, instead he tried to attract as little attention as possible. He drove to the French-German border and into France toward Paris, the city he knew and loved.

My husband spoke fluent French. So it was not difficult for him to find a place to stay and a job.

Only then did he phone me in California.

Since at that particular time I was working on a film, I hadn't phoned him in Berlin for quite a while—partly because of the time difference, partly because it was not so easy to make outside calls from the studio, and also because, like myself, he was seldom at home. When I heard his voice from Paris I was very happy to hear of his decision and that everything had gone so smoothly. We hardly gave any thought to the loss of our home and our valuable furniture. We thought only of the moment, of the present—just as young people still do today.

He guided me further even in his self-imposed exile and gave me good advice as he had always done. And I, his companion in exile, was a good student who submitted to his orders.

Josef von Sternberg was very close to him and often sided with him in our discussions. He engaged him as an assistant director for one of his films, and he would scold me when I didn't act according to my husband's wishes.

I suffered under this separation from my homeland, but it is easier to get over homesickness when you are young.

The Hitler regime asked me to return to Berlin and become the “queen” of the German film, and my reply to this offer is well known. What is not as widely known is the way I played—and quite sadistically—my game with the Nazis. I reminded them that I was under contract with von Sternberg but that I would be more than happy to be able to make a film under his direction in Germany.

This conversation took place in Paris at the German embassy. I had been pleading with the American authorities to let my German passport expire, but they had insisted that all my papers had to be in order if I wanted to become an American citizen. So I had to apply for an extension of my passport. I went to the German embassy, of course, to attend to this formality. Von Stern
berg knew nothing about it. And I had turned down my husband's offer to come with me to the embassy. I was afraid that his short temper would get the better of him. I had to act diplomatically and couldn't allow myself to be carried away by my feelings.

So I ventured into the lion's den, the occupant of which was Count von Welczeck, Hitler Germany's ambassador to France. Alongside him stood four tall men who were introduced to me as the Princes Reuss. All these dignitaries remained standing, as though nailed behind the high armchairs. The ambassador explained that the extension of my passport would be granted immediately and added that he had still another special message to pass on to me. I should return to Germany and not try to become an American citizen. As an inducement, he promised me a “triumphal entry into Berlin through the Brandenburg Gate.” End of quote. I thought of Lady Godiva and suppressed a smile. I was extremely polite, gave my contract with von Sternberg as an excuse for my hesitancy and explained that if they would ask him to make a film in Germany, I would be more than glad to accept their offer.

There was an icy silence, which I finally broke: “Do I rightly understand that you refuse to have Mr. von Sternberg make a film in your country (I said: ‘your country') because he's Jewish?” Suddenly they all began to stir and to talk at the same time: “You are infected by American propaganda. There is no anti-Semitism in Germany …”

Then and there I realized it was time to go. I stood up and said: “Well, then we're all agreed. I'll wait for the result of your negotiations with my director, and I hope the German press will change its tone toward Mr. von Sternberg and me.”

As the ambassador (his Czech name confused me) let me know: “A single word from the Führer and all your wishes will be fulfilled,
if
you are ready to return.”

Escorted by the four princes, I walked through the long corridor to the exit, and I was trembling when I set foot on French soil again, on the street on which my husband was nervously pacing up and down. He took me by the arm and helped me to get in the car.

On the next day the duly extended passport was sent to my hotel. These “gentlemen” knew everything. They knew when my contract with Paramount would expire and when the next one would come into force. They were up to date on everything. I seemed to have pleased the horrible dwarf. What an honor!

My friends and my family jokingly, would often ask me whether I wouldn't like to return to Germany and kill him—another form of gallows humor. I never felt up to a mission of this kind, intellectually or physically. Today I'm sure I was right. But at that time I always acted on my gut feeling in which I had confidence, the good gut feeling of a Berliner. According to Noel Coward I am “a realist and a clown.” I know the realist; I also know the clown, but he makes only an occasional appearance. I can sometimes play the clown and be very funny, but this is a characteristic that often remains hidden. The clown comes to the surface when I feel embarrassed by something or when I learn something essential about life. But the clown departs the moment my feelings begin to run deep. Then I am helplessly vulnerable to all possible offenses—even to a voice on the phone with an odd ring—and I can let myself drift, leave myself exposed to a world alien to me in the hope that somewhere someone will emerge from out of nowhere and save me. That's how I am, a creature whose character has been shaped by loving people, from my mother all the way to my husband and to my daughter, people who protected me.

I grew up surrounded by love throughout my whole childhood, and even as a young girl life was a game—guided by a star of sympathy and understanding, which was far more important than all we learned in school, went beyond the traditional commandments, and was surpassed only by my experience as an adult.

Before von Sternberg took me in hand, I was utterly helpless, I was not even aware of the task awaiting me. I was a “nobody,” and the mysterious energies of the creator breathed life into this nothingness. I'm not entitled to the least recognition for the roles I played in his films. I was nothing but pliable material on the infinitely rich palette of his ideas and imaginative faculties.

The films that von Sternberg made with me speak for themselves. There is nothing, and there will be nothing in the future,
that could surpass them. Filmmakers are forever condemned to imitate them.

Many books have been written on his work. But none offers a truthful picture of his extraordinary talent. None of them originated “live,” so to speak. As for me, I was there and saw everything. I saw the
magic,
even though I was still young.

Von Sternberg looked for a very definite figure to play the male hero in
The Scarlet Empress
—filmed in 1934—and the type was not to be found in Hollywood. So he decided to pick the lawyer John Lodge. John Lodge was the proverbial gentleman: refined and well educated. He had never acted before, yet he corresponded to the concept von Sternberg had in his head, and he proved to be very convincing in this role. Von Sternberg didn't want to subject him to any sound tests and contented himself with shooting a short scene. He designed a magnificent, though perhaps not all too authentic costume, and Lodge conquered the hearts of all American women. He was
the
Russian hero, the romantic figure par excellence. On the first day of shooting John Lodge, who had never seen a camera aimed at him, began to stutter. Since von Sternberg wanted to spare him a humiliating failure, he asked me to perform all alone and no longer to depend on a partner, and he himself taught John Lodge how to behave in front of a camera.

John Lodge became our friend, and he won von Sternberg's unlimited respect. He made few films after
The Scarlet Empress,
but I'm sure he was never sorry to have had the experience of being an actor. He's too intelligent a man to regret the past.

Now to get back to me: so von Sternberg had me perform “all alone.” This was asking a lot. At first, I refused, but I soon understood what von Sternberg wanted and I obeyed. Today
The Scarlet Empress
is a classic. In 1934, however, it didn't enjoy the hoped-for success. But now we know that this film was ahead of its time; certainly this is the reason why it is shown in film museums, in programs and film workshops, and also why millions of moviegoers see it on the silver screen throughout the world. The younger generations rave about
The Scarlet Empress.
Young people write me, and talk about the costumes—particularly about my
boots, which moreover were white!—and other impressive details of the work they seem to understand thoroughly … much more than the public of that time. They are also fascinated by the artistic direction, which, of course, was in von Sternberg's hands. But he didn't believe wholeheartedly in
The Scarlet Empress.
Once he told the members of the cast: “If this film is a flop, it will be a grandiose flop, and the critics will rage. But I prefer to see you in a grandiose flop than in a mediocre film.” Von Sternberg was to be proved eminently right. The critics' rage was immense.

I didn't attach any great importance to their reactions. First of all, because a film gradually fades as a phenomenon once it's in the distribution process, and then also because I never read even one article on
The Scarlet Empress,
nor did I follow the film's box office receipts. Work on a new film had begun; I spent hours on fittings and was concerned with keeping as close as possible to the new image that von Sternberg wanted to create. With him my roles were always different.

I constantly ran the risk of letting my roles or my profession slip into my private life. That was unavoidable. Despite this I've always taken great pains to keep these two spheres of my life apart. As I've said earlier, I was utterly indifferent to the opinions of others, save von Sternberg's.

The studio publicity people kept on trying to bring about an association between my roles and my person. Indeed, their work primarily consisted in hatching stories for the press and the countless large-circulation movie magazines that were not read by intellectuals. The life I led in Hollywood was not a good hunting ground for these characters hell-bent on piquant anecdotes. That's why I can't really reproach them for having fabricated an “exciting” life for me. I wasn't familiar with their articles, but when I think about it, I figure that these publicity agents must have really loathed me. Yet even had I known about it at that time, I wouldn't have cared. I complied with the terms of my contract. When I was scheduled to give an interview, which did not happen often, I learned to politely sidestep inappropriate questions.

The alleged “myth” or “legend” is still very much alive, and day and night it mobilizes hundreds of prospective reporters and
writers. I could well do without them. When the new adventure of my life began, “the stage,” I thought I could destroy the “myth.” In a certain way I succeeded, since I was in direct contact with the public. Yet my so-called “biographers” were not to be dissuaded.

In their confused heads
The Blue Angel
was a von Sternberg creation, while he had merely brought to life on the screen a character of Heinrich Mann's novel
Professor Unrat.
Neither von Sternberg nor I invented the woman who ruined the poor professor. Naturally, von Sternberg and the two other scriptwriters Carl Zuckmayer and Liebmann made some changes (that always happens when a novel is filmed), but nevertheless, they preserved the characteristic features of the main characters.

I should like once more to repeat: The roles I have played in films have absolutely nothing to do with what I really am. It's stupid to associate these roles with myself. For a time I was busy compiling excerpts from the films von Sternberg had made with me for the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Most of my admirers were flabbergasted by the result. In contrast to the widespread opinion that I am always the same immovable creature who is looking over her left shoulder, who hides her face under hats and behind veils betraying no emotion whatsoever, and who doesn't see anything outside the range of the camera, this compilation showed an actress who contradicted all these clichés.

Although I edited the film myself, I must say that it's outstanding, unfortunately, I didn't keep a copy or even a list of the scenes. I edited according to a sense of proportion and feeling. From all my films I chose settings that, instead of meshing like the parts of a puzzle, contrasted with each other in relation to the person, the atmosphere or the camera angle, the lighting conditions or the costumes. I vaguely remember that the film was again cut apart since we had used some material belonging to the sacrosanct MCA. I don't know why I didn't receive a copy before the originals were given back. It must have been a question of money, as always.