Marlene (21 page)

German cooking is, of course, the worst of all. It must not be confused with the Austrian, which has far more to offer than Wiener schnitzel, and most of whose other dishes are very good.

I don't know whether Russian cookbooks are available now. But I advise you, if you see one, buy it. And use dill, lots of dill! Dill is the most important of all herbs. Without it fish is simply boring—but other dishes also require dill.

In the twenties Berlin was overrun by Russians. It was the time when I learned to cook. I've preserved my knowledge through the long years in America and refreshed it later in Paris where I had Russian friends. The only thing I never managed to do to perfection were the piroshki, but otherwise I don't do too badly with most Russian dishes.

I cook well only over an open gas flame. The baking oven isn't exactly my dearest friend. Probably because I can't look deeply inside it, instead having to depend on calculation. And I abhor calculation as such.
Ya lioublu tebya,
I love you and good cooking!

According to statistics, millions of American women buy cookbooks, but there is still no applause. It's not their fault. They were not created to be cooks. They have too many different interests, too many pressing demands, too many great ambitions—in many areas, but not in cooking. They read cookbooks, but their hearts are not in it when they try out the recipes. The result: Nowhere else in the world is there more snacking, double and triple hamburgers (the German city of Hamburg has nothing to do with these aberrations), cheeseburgers, etc., as well as Coca-Cola to wash down the hamburgers. And sweets are almost a must according to the unwritten laws of these fast food places. Millions of doctors and dentists in America profit from all this folly while the taste buds of potential female cooks atrophy I can only hope they have other pleasures. It goes without saying that I'm not speaking of the rural areas of the United States or of dark-skinned women—who are by nature highly imaginative.

Patience was my greatest forté, and perfection, my aim, I was very well equipped for my new tasks. And I continue to learn, even
to this day. Actually, my culinary skills are limited to very simple dishes. It's more a “country” than an “urban” style of cooking.

My
pot-au-feu
is a delicious winter meal, as my satisfied French “customers” have assured me. I have a special fondness for stews. I'm not an expert of roast because you need a man for carving, and I don't like to make my guests work. One of these days I'll learn that. Anyway, I've always found cooking even greater fun ever since I prepared my first meals for my French friends in Hollywood.

Helpless, Gabin clung to me like an orphan to his foster mother, and I loved to mother him day and night.

I took care of his contracts and his house. He had fled to Spain from France, and from there, with a friend, he had come to the United States. We furnished his house according to his taste, with all the French objects we were able to dig up in the flea markets or in the Beverly Hills shops. We wanted to make him feel as comfortable as possible.

His adventure in Hollywood didn't please him at all. But he had to swallow the bitter pill, since work in films was the only way for him to earn a living. This uncomplicated man simply swallowed his annoyance. I helped him to overcome all obstacles, I loved him very much.

Naturally, the French I had learned in early childhood strengthened my love for France and also my relationship to Gabin. I took all the uprooted and desperate French into my house, spoke their language and was mother, cook, counselor and interpreter to them.

Besides Gabin and Renoir there was also Rene Clair—not exactly one of the friendliest of men—the charming Marcel Dalio, and many other French refugees who had wound up in America. The language problem stood in the way of most of them, except for the directors and writers who could resort to the help of interpreters. But actors must speak the language of the country. Apart from Gabin only a few could do that. Almost all of them changed professions.

The fate of these actors was tragic. In addition, the French didn't understand the American way of life. Everything here astonished, disturbed them. I spent my evenings explaining America to them. I acted very cleverly, lavish with advice, and as much as I could, I broadened their knowledge and set aright their judgments. This apparently pleased them because they would return on the next day and question me further. A real ritual, a discussion followed the dinner in which they made me privy to all their physical and spiritual sufferings—a group of likeable young people for whom I was, above all, a friend and advisor. I took on all the tasks they entrusted to me. I soothed their lover's grief and sometimes spoke with their sweethearts. They were utterly dumbfounded when call girls would come up to the steering wheel of their car and ask: “Should we have coffee now or afterwards?” But they managed to cope with the situation as the French have always done. “
On se demerde
,” as they put it. I hugely enjoyed my role. I, the German anti-Nazi, was taking care of these men who had escaped Hitler's troops. There were no women among them. Where were they? So I took care of them. As soon as they knew some English, enough to carry on a simple conversation, they bought cars and began to do battle with the studios. I was very proud to be their “good fairy.”

They have all remained very dear friends. Naturally, we don't see each other every day the way we used to, but we haven't lost sight of each other. Friendships like these are indestructible. We respect each other and are always ready to help an old friend if one needs us.

We fought together, shoulder to shoulder. Gabin made films, complied with his contract, and then decided to join the Free French forces. He wanted to fight. I understood this wish very well. I was his mother, his sister, his friend—and more still.

I accompanied him to a secret port near New York where he embarked on a destroyer bound for Morocco. We swore an eternal friendship to each other like little children, and I remained alone on the wharf, a poor, forsaken little girl. The destroyer was sunk somewhere between the United States and Morocco, and I heard nothing more about him. I enlisted in the U.S. Army, was ordered
to New York, and was dispatched from one port to another … but I'll talk about this episode of my life later. Gabin survived the sinking of his ship and landed in Casablanca, as I learned later. My lonely “child” had lost all contact with me. I was terribly worried. Where was he? I knew he needed me, and I could sense this longing from the other side of the ocean.

Everybody knows Gabin's acting talent. No word need be spent on this subject. What is not known, on the contrary, is his sensitivity. The tough-guy façade and the macho stance were put-ons. He was the most sensitive man I knew, a little baby who liked best of all to curl up in his mother's lap and be loved, cradled, and pampered. That's the image I have of him.

We were all expatriates in America: We were living in a foreign country; we had to speak a foreign language and adjust ourselves to unknown customs and ideas. Although we were film stars, we felt lost. Gabin, quintessentially French, protected himself against every foreign influence in his modest home. I had to cook French and speak French with him, and we socialized only with French actors and directors. This life pleased me enormously. I really felt at home only in the company of French friends. In my innermost being I felt a kind of frustration, yearning, a dream for a homeland that had originated in my youth and drew me to the French.

Gabin was
the
man, the superman, the “man for life.” He was the ideal all women seek. Nothing in him was false. Everything was clear and transparent. He was good and outdid those who vainly tried to do the same for him. But he was stubborn, extremely possessive, and jealous. I liked all these qualities about him, and we never seriously quarreled.

Gabin knew how to adroitly resist the siren songs of the new French regime under Marshal Henri-Philippe Petain. He wanted to join Charles de Gaulle. Sacha de Manzierly who at that time directed the de Gaulle office in New York, helped him.

The heroic deeds Gabin performed during the war are well known; less well known is his enlistment in General Jacques Leclerc's armored tank division. For him it was as dangerous as a plunge into a snake pit.

Jean Gabin had a deep aversion to anything relating to electricity. It was useless to ask him to change a light bulb or to repair an electric iron. And he had the same phobia about fire. Now it often happened that tank crews perished in the flames of their burning vehicles. Gabin was certainly aware of this danger, but he didn't shirk it and came out of it without a scratch as always. He enlisted with the Second Tank Division and got as far as Berchtesgaden. He brought back no souvenirs from Hitler's hiding place. I regretted that, but he had none to show me upon his return.

In France nobody knew anything about Gabin's attitude—all people think actors concern themselves exclusively with films and never allow themselves to confront reality, especially if it's dangerous. Once again I was enraged, he wasn't. He remained calm and went looking for a place where he could live and store his belongings. That was in 1945, after May 8, the day that marked the end of the war in Europe.

The soldiers returned home, except for the Americans. I continued to work for the troops stationed in France, troops who were jittery because they might be sent to fight in the Pacific where the war continued. I, too, was afraid. I longed for the end of the war, and I was not alone. After the bloodbath we had experienced in Europe, we impatiently awaited peace. We didn't, above all, want to be sent to another front where everything would begin all over again.

Jean Gabin had left the army after the end of the war and resumed his work in a Paris that was no longer the one he had known. He didn't like his new life. Winter arrived. It began to snow. He grumbled about the slush everywhere in the streets. He still felt himself to be an actor, but in the presence of Parisian crowds, the rich, untroubled by the ubiquitous mire, he didn't dare complain.

Gabin could never stand the bourgeoisie. At that time he was very impulsive. He had patience only with his friends. He was very nice to us, but easily infuriated when he encountered an injustice. For then it seemed to him that he had fought in vain, all
soldiers feel that way, but Jean Gabin didn't have enough sympathy or patience to accept this contradiction.

It was easy for us civilians to show understanding. But when you've nearly lost your life, things look different. Jean Gabin understood that. He had voluntarily thrown himself into combat, he didn't want to be “in a safe haven” like many other stars who, when summoned by their consulates, always found an excuse to avoid enlistment. He went there and stared reality in the face unflinchingly. A benign fate alone had preserved him from death and annihilation, physically and spiritually.

His strength helped him to look disaster straight in the eye and survive. One of the fascinating aspects of his personality is this rare mixture of courage and tenderness. On the night of May 8, 1945, we both wept when we heard de Gaulle's speech, and we understood what there remained for us to do. He in his way, I in mine.

I also remember the winter of 1944. We were close to the front at the time of Bastogne, but we didn't know our exact position. That was also unimportant. We obeyed orders. After Bastogne our destination was changed, and we were sent to the south. Again the rumor that the front would be strengthened by the “Free French Forces” and the Second Tank Division was making the rounds. One afternoon my performance was dropped, I asked an officer to get me a jeep, and I set out on a search for Gabin. Finally I found his division. Evening descended on a great number of tanks standing in a field. I began to walk and look for gray hair under the caps of the “fusilier marines.” Most of the soldiers looked almost like young boys; they sat around, relaxed, and watched the oncoming twilight. Suddenly I saw him from the rear. I called out his name; he turned around and said: “Merde!” That was all. He jumped out of his tank and locked me in his arms. I had hardly regained my breath when the signal sounded for the tanks to line up in formation. He climbed into his vehicle again, and soon all you could see was a cloud of dust and all you could hear was the growling of motors.

I returned to America. We often would phone each other.
Things were not going smoothly with him, but I couldn't help him. When a war is over, soldiers are always sad. It's a very peculiar sadness. There is no egocentricity about it, and it affects those who have fought and killed, those who can no longer find peace—a feeling I know all too well. Each one must define the word
kill
for himself. Once you've received an order to kill, that's legal. Nevertheless, it means to kill, no matter how you look at it. You put an end to another person's life only because you have been ordered to do so.
And then you also get a medal for it.
But if you dispose of someone who has really harmed you or your family, you're thrown in jail. Such are the rules, and they're difficult to understand. Neither Gabin nor I ever accepted them.

We met again after the war. He had no work, neither did I. Regularly I would be told in reproachful tones, “You haven't been on the screen for a long time.” Gabin and I responded to this dig in the same way: “Damn civilians!” we would intone in unison. All these people who had sat comfortably behind their big desks, whom the war had not so much as touched, were imposing their laws on us.

But what was to be done? We were at their mercy for better or worse. We were completely broke, of course. How could we have earned money during the war? Now, as we could have predicted, we were penniless. We had only our medals. And you can't eat medals.

My decorations hang on the wall, but they're here only for the children. Normally, fathers receive medals, not mothers. The French medals are the only ones that really mean something to me. No, I shouldn't say “the only ones” because the Medal of Freedom that America awarded me is very precious to me. The French medals “Knight of the Legion of Honor,” “Officer of the Legion of Honor,” filled me with great joy. France, the beloved country, honored me, a simple American soldier, a simple woman who had loved France since childhood.