Marlene (30 page)

We give four performances a day, always under enemy fire. Some K rations and coffee, always coffee. Night falls. Still no password. What should we do? Drive through the forest back to Nancy? We're back to square one.

“One of you get out and identify yourself.”

This time, it looks as though it's really all over for us. Once again, I am pushed out of the jeep.

The GI with the gun looks at me. “Oh, it's you. Everything's all right,” he says.

It's beyond my understanding. He lets us through. We return to our quarters.

“The password?”

“…”

“If you don't know it, how did you get to Nancy?”

“And what is the password?”

“Right. As a matter of fact, I've got news for you. It's cheesecake.”

General Patton had kept his promise.

He had a great sense of humor and an understanding of the GIs' sense of humor. Patton was a great man. I was still with him when thousands of German soldiers surrendered, and there wasn't enough barbed wire to fence them in. They had voluntarily become prisoners, but they had to be put somewhere.

Patton was advancing so swiftly that nobody, not even an order from the General Staff, could stop him. Finally, it was decided to cut off his gasoline supplies.

“It seems,” he said to me, “that an American-Russian agreement has established the borders where Americans and Russians are to meet.”

General Patton was about to go beyond this border, which is quite understandable when you're close on the enemy's heels. It's difficult to stand still when you're going full speed, and the road ahead is all clear.

But he was forced to stay put. No more gasoline. He took me (as interpreter) with him to the foul smelling camps. German generals in uniform saluted him from twenty steps away. I shuttled between Patton and the generals, transmitting messages. Patton wanted to know all about troop movements, the number of soldiers, tanks engaged, equipment, etc.

Each time I left, he bade me good-bye very politely. Without him, the Third Army would not have been what it was.

I still have the revolver he gave me. After the war, I hid it when I arrived at LaGuardia Airport. We had to give up all the precious Lugers, all the weapons we had gathered during the war, but we did so reluctantly and under pressure.

We took off from New York during a hailstorm. We had received survival instructions in case we had to make an emergency landing on water on this unforgettable night, the most improbable of nights to take off, after all this waiting.

Huddled closely together in the damp fuselage we had set out for an unknown destination; our instructions were sealed. We were allowed to open them only after takeoff, and read: “
CASABLANCA
.”

This word dispelled all our fears. It was really Europe, and not the Pacific. Although we had been almost sure that we were bound for Europe, we were relieved to read “Casablanca” in black and white. And we rose higher through the hailstorm.

I was in an airplane for the first time. I no longer know today whether this was also true for my fellow passengers. Fatigue overcame us, we fell asleep. From time to time, we would awaken and repeat the security instructions: “In the event of an emergency landing on water, the rubber raft is over there, the radio apparatus over here, the K rations here, the flares there,” and so on.

The soldiers crammed together in the plane had not yet seen combat; they came fresh from the peaceful training camps. Up till now they had enjoyed typical American nourishment and slept on American soil in clean, soft beds. In the flames of the cigarette lighters, you could see the fear in their faces. Nobody spoke—all we heard was the throbbing of the motors.

Casablanca. I knew this city only from films. Mysterious, fantastic, like a picture in a book read a long time ago. During the flight, we—that is, the group to which I had been assigned—didn't get to know each other well, but later we were to become like a family. Danny Thomas, a young comedian “with a future” constantly cracked jokes, the tenor snored lightly in his sleep, the accordionist held his whisky bottle close to himself, and Lynn Mayberry the Texan lady, was wide awake after a few hours of sleep. At that time, there were no jets, so the flight was a very long one.

Abe Lastfogel, who directed theatrical activities on the front,
had lavished special care on our crowd, so as to assure “a good performance” on the stages, as he liked to emphasize. He worked day and night; he was fantastic. “Danny Thomas has made a very promising start in Chicago,” he explained to me. “I think he'll be a star one day. But I would like to have him in your group for another reason; he's a swell guy. We, you and I, realize the importance of our jobs. So, no hams. For your sake, but also for the army's sake. You'll have to perform in Camp Meade before the censor, but once you get the green light, there'll be no further reviewing or rewriting.”

Abe Lastfogel also told me that Danny Thomas had an engagement at a nightclub in the United States, and could stay with us for only six weeks. As for myself, I was prepared to stick it out until the end of the war. I saw no reason why I should return to America, once I was “on the spot.” Many didn't believe me. They didn't think I would last for so long.

The program was flawless. Danny cracked his jokes; I sang a couple of songs, together we performed some sketches written for us by celebrities like Garson Kanin and Burgess Meredith. We also executed a mind-reading trick I had already performed with Orson Welles in front of GI recruits. The Texan Lynn Mayberry had her own number. We could perform on trucks or tanks, since we didn't need a stage. We gave four or five performances a day, and like nomads, we would go in a jeep from one unit to another. In fact, our accordionist was a
real
Gypsy. I've always loved the sound of the accordion, and unlike the tenor, I didn't miss the piano at all.

Abe Lastfogel always knew where we were. God only knows through what miracle he always managed to find us. He had taken on a formidable task. To organize hundreds of performances for the Armed Forces, to combine the different talents, to choose the artists, to prepare them for their acts, and in addition, he also had taken on the responsibility for the morale of the troupe. And he did all this with enormous generosity, he dedicated all his time and energies to this task. To this day, I say, “Bravo, Mr. Lastfogel!”

The performance was approved by the censorship authori
ties in Camp Meade, and the waiting began, since at first we had to remain in New York. We all had code names.

Finally, we landed in Casablanca. No lights on the runways. Today, since I'm slightly more familiar with flying, I'd be scared to death. But, at that time, with my incredible naiveté, I contented myself with following the example of my fellow passengers and fastened my seat belt.

The plane made a bumpy landing, and the motors came to a sudden stop. Soldiers stormed the cabin.

“Who are you? …To which unit do you belong?”

The men from the base didn't know what they were supposed to do with us. This disturbed them.

“Let's just wait here calmly,” I said to Danny and the other members of the troupe. “After this long trip, we don't want to make trouble on our arrival.”

Danny agreed. We waited. The night was cold, or perhaps it seemed colder because we were so tired. Finally a colonel showed up and said that nobody had been told of our arrival, but that he would look around for quarters for us.

We left the plane and climbed into a jeep. I wanted to see the French coast, the country that I loved and that was occupied by the enemy, the country that we would free when the time came. The driver made a slight detour, and I imagined I saw France. The others didn't understand my emotions, but they were quiet as I dried my tears.

We visited the bases in North Africa and finally arrived at Oran. Italy was the next step from there. Meanwhile, we had gotten to know each other well. Danny beat on his helmet as though it were a bongo drum and invented witty lyrics to familiar melodies, lyrics that related our experiences, we sang, laughed, slept, ate—and we took cover.

The first thing you learn during a raid is to hide. Everything else is simple. Three things count: eating, sleeping, taking cover. My shinbones are still scarred, souvenirs of all the GIs who, cursing, threw me on the ground. For a long time, I believed that the bullets fired from the enemy lines actually were coming from our own ranks. I learned about that. I was more afraid about my
teeth than about my legs. Thank God there was always a GI nearby to give me a shove.

Of all the soldiers I met, the GIs were the bravest. Bravery is simple when you're defending your own country or hearth. But to be bundled off to a foreign country to fight for “God knows what,” to lose your eyes, arms, legs, and return home a cripple—that's something quite different.

I've seen these men during a battle and afterward. Long after the war I saw them again—in their homes, hobbling around on their crutches, or seated, legless, happily surrounded by their wives and children.

I've seen them all. I've loved them all, long after the world forgot them. In this area, I have an excellent memory, and my memories are unextinguishable.

How often I've met veterans, taxi drivers who talk with me and remember: “We were happier then.” Then I ask them to drive once more around Central Park, so that we can continue to conjure up remembrances of those years and feel our togetherness as before.

I regret above all that today we no longer know any real camaraderie, that mutual trust we once felt. But it seems that the best human qualities only appear in times of crisis. Today, there are no longer any “times of crisis.” America is a country marked by great insecurity, incapable of recuperating from the alleged “shame” of the Nixon era. Politics is always dishonorable. For me, there is nothing special about the “moral crisis” that has overcome America. As though no one had ever behaved badly before!

Never talk with soldiers if you want to live a peaceful life without nightmares and bad consciences. Don't talk with us, because we don't need to hear your ridiculous complaints. We thought the Second World War would certainly mean the end of wars. When we returned to the United States at the end of the war, we were greeted with stupid remarks. We were not allowed in restaurants without wearing ties, no matter how many medals a paratrooper wore on his chest. I was in the Champagne Room of El Morocco when I saw men, who had defended civilians in a war that had seemed largely irrelevant to them, actually turned back
and not allowed to enter. And those civilians who had never gone through a war or ever heard the roar of a gun, sat in front of their thick steaks, staring coldly at us, as though we were pariahs.

But I must confess this pleased us. With well-chosen words, we told them to go to hell.

The years of “re-integration,” a beautiful phrase, followed. Personally, I needed a very long time before I “re-integrated” myself. I walked through the streets of New York and simply could not believe that the politicians were dishing out more and more lies. We would meet in the streets, I took care of the soldiers—pardon, the veterans—paid their hotel bills, and tried to alleviate their misfortunes. The government didn't give a damn. Contrary to what we entertainers had been told to promise the soldiers after each of our wartime performances in Europe, there was no work for them. The veterans trudged through the streets.

The bureaucracy—the eternal enemy in one's own country.

None of the promises were kept.

Why do I feel so responsible? During the tough battles in the Ardennes, I had assured the soldiers that jobs would await them on their return. I gave them the same hopes I gave to myself, and I convinced them—because I was told to.

Without noticing it, as often happens, my hands and feet froze in the terrible cold of the Ardennes. My hands swelled up like balloons. I was told to put a kind of jelly over them, which made the swollen fingers look like the paws of a rare animal. That didn't matter to me, since I'm an incorrigible optimist. I knew nothing about the later consequences of such frostbite. It was more difficult to treat my feet. But we wore wide, comfortable combat boots, which considerably lessened the pain.

To this day, my hands become a curious color when they get warm, and their skin is as delicate as a baby's bottom. Sometimes I notice that someone is watching me during dinner, and I realize that my hands on the table are not a very pretty sight. I quickly hide them.

During the war, of course, all that counted for little. What was important was to do your job—and to do it well. When I read books in which actors tell stories about their work and how they
went on tour in the United States, in spite of a fever or a sore throat, I can't help but smile. What, after all, is so important about a “performance”? Actors are really strange people.

Not Danny Thomas! He's a great guy—open, bright. He's not only gifted but also a man and a gentleman at the same time—something so rare! He taught me all the secrets of his art.

As I've said earlier, we had rehearsed our performances, and I felt secure about my numbers, but in Italy I was suddenly standing before thousands of soldiers, seated all over the hillsides and bombarding me with war whoops, whistles, and propositions of all kinds. This wasn't in the program, and I didn't know how to react.

Danny taught me how to keep my self-control, how to impose silence on the audience. He also taught me a flair for timing, how to get a laugh, and how to stop one, and how to handle all those desperate kids who wanted to humiliate anyone who hadn't been in combat. This hostility was the most difficult to overcome. And Danny could do it superbly. He even rescued our tenor, a very nice fellow who sang “Besame Mucho” beautifully, from their hostile mockery. He was booed by the GIs the moment he appeared onstage. For reasons unknown to us, Danny had escaped the draft.