Marlene (33 page)

Guest performance, Malmo, 1963

Guest performance, Warsaw, 1964

Guest performance, Moscow, 1964

We were ready for anything. The prospect of some soap and water after so long a time without was enough for us to forget all shyness, all modesty.

It was on this occasion that we discovered our crabs. They didn't make us itch or scratch. They were just there, obviously content with their surroundings, and they didn't bother us. We traced them. Dark spots. Easy to see. Lynn Mayberry, our darkhaired Texan, ran to her tent, examined herself, came back and said that she had some, too.

Our problem was to get rid of them. No doctor was available, since we had advanced so quickly. After a few days, I had a “brilliant idea.” I think I have never had such a stupid idea.

“When I perform my mind-reading act and ask a GI to join me on the truck, I'll ask him to come to my tent with me after the performance.” This was my idea. Nothing was more sensible than asking a soldier, right?

If you want to know which person is suitable to be used in a magic trick, you must first look for certain signs. Since this magic act brought me rather close to the audience, as often as possible I would pick a soldier wearing glasses. Men wearing glasses are not as fresh as those who don't wear them. By that, I mean that when I hung around the men, the fellows without glasses would rather rudely grab me and not allow me to end my number in an orderly way. Eyeglass wearers, on the other hand, were less aggressive, decidedly more cooperative, and helped me to bring the performance to a proper close.

During one of our four daily performances, the moment arrived when I had to pick an eyeglass wearer. But I couldn't see a single pair of eyeglasses in the light of the setting sun.

I stoically endured my discomfort. Three days went by.

Finally, on the fourth day, I vaguely noticed something that
looked like eyeglasses on the distant hillside. The sun was setting slowly, and I said, “You, there—no, not you—you. Yes, would you please come up here and help me with my act?”

The man who got up was very tall. He jumped on the tailgate of the truck, as though he were jumping over a step ten centimeters high. While talking to him loudly, I managed to whisper, in between, “Come to my tent behind the truck, after the performance.” He didn't bat an eye.

I returned to my tent, told my guardian angels that I'd be having a visitor and waited. The tent lay in darkness. Only a ray of light penetrated between the entrance flaps.

I stood and observed the odd designs and images reflected onto the dirty fabric of my dress by the sequins that caught the light and changed with the rhythm of my breathing.

Suddenly a huge silhouette appeared at the entrance to the tent.

“Ma'am,” said a voice.

The man had removed his glasses.

“Good evening,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”

He was silent. I mustered all my courage. “I don't know how to put this to you.” Then I waited.

“You don't know where we could go?” he asked finally.

“No, that's not it. I just would like to tell you that I've got crabs.”

Quick as lightning, he replied, “That doesn't bother me.”

“You don't understand.”

“So, what's it all about?”

“What can I do to get rid of them?”

“Is that all you wanted?”

“Yes.”

Then he came toward me. Closer, he looked even taller. He was a Texan, and Texans are a breed unto themselves. The reflections of light from the sequins played on his face. He looked angry.

“Didn't they give you any de-lousing powder? You can get that anytime.”

“I know, but I thought it was to be used only against ordinary lice.”

And he, growing angrier, “Spray it over you and don't wash.”

Silence.

“And if you want to know how they die,” he erupted, “the powder paralyzes their jaws so they starve to death.”

I remained rooted to the spot. He bowed low, turned around on his heel, and pushed the entrance flap aside. I had to give another performance, and hoped I would see him again, but he had disappeared forever. I'm sure he was furious. Texans certainly aren't used to that kind of conversation with a woman, especially not in the middle of a forest in Europe, while all of his buddies were certainly waiting to hear a detailed description of a most improbable conquest.

We stayed quite awhile in Aachen. We lived in a bombed-out house, bathtubs were suspended in midair, but at least there was a roof under which we could spread our sleeping bags. There's something reassuring about a roof.

The war in Europe was marked by endless rain. Mud was everywhere, moisture was everywhere, and crept into our clothing—and then there were the rats.

Rats have icy paws. You're lying on the bare floor in your sleeping bag, the blanket pulled up to your chin, and these creatures run over your face, their paws as cold as death; they give you the jitters.

Then the bombs—are they V-1s or V-2s—also scare the pants off you, and you don't know which way to turn.

The rats in Aachen gave us no peace. They came every night. I sprayed a kind of wall of de-lousing powder around me—in vain. This way, at least, I got rid of the crabs—and of my Texan friend.

There was a Texas division in the army. My God, how proud they were of their origins. When they took over a city, they would teach the children that the United States was part of Texas. But no matter how proud and arrogant they were, they did a damned good job during the war. There aren't men like this anywhere else. And nobody had better try to contradict me.

Once I said to a Texan soldier, “You're beautiful,” and he answered me, “Ma'am, you should never say that to a man.”

“And what should I say to a man?”

“In Texas,” he replied, “the most you can tell a man is that his pants fit him well.” Well, that's quite true, their pants do fit them well.

They are men who inspire trust and confidence, they are dynamic. Texas is an immense state. That explains why there were so many soldiers in the Texas division. Glory and honor to you all! I embrace them, and send them all my love, from far away, through space and time. I think there's a photo in which I appear with this Texas division, somewhere in Europe.

Back to the rats. Our stay in Aachen dragged on. The Red Cross nurses helped as well as they could. They had made doughnuts, and we helped distribute them to the liberated POWs and the survivors of the concentration camps.

Rats everywhere. Now we put wet towels over our faces so that these creatures would run off somewhere else. They didn't like “alien” coldness, they liked only their own cold paws in their own cold environment.

Apropos of rats, one day we were performing in a real movie house in Aachen. It was cold, as usual. The proprietor of the place came over to me and asked if I would like a cup of hot coffee.

All the others said, “Don't take it, it might be poisoned.”

“No, they would never dare,” I answered and drank the coffee.

Then I asked the man, “Why did you offer me the coffee? After all, you know I'm on the other side.”

“Of course, I know that you're on the other side, but”—and he sighed—“but you are also the Blue Angel …”

All that because of a film!

I was able to see the same reaction everywhere in Germany. Perhaps the Germans had not forgiven me, but they knew me, begged me to help with their problems, something for which they cannot be reproached.

I was born a German, and I shall always remain German, regardless of what has been said about me on this score. I had to
change my citizenship when Hitler came to power. Otherwise, I never would have done it. America took me into her bosom when I no longer had a native country worthy of the name, and I'm thankful to her for it. I've lived in this country and have abided by its laws. I've become a good citizen, but in my heart I'm German.

German in my soul? Just where is this soul? German because of my education. That I can't deny, the traces cannot be overlooked. German philosophy and German poetry are my background. I would never have believed that roots are important. Today I know they are. You can love your adopted country out of gratitude and also because you gradually let yourself be infused by the values of its people, by its true aims, its sense of humor, its feelings.

Thus, new roots are planted alongside the old ones.

We ended our tour in Aachen as planned and returned to our barracks to report that everything had proceeded according to plan. But the war was far from over. Since we were the fifth wheel on the wagon, we were shipped around here and there, like many others, civilian or soldier.

President Roosevelt died, and we had to comfort saddened soldiers who were as overwhelmed by this loss as we were ourselves.

The news was given to me in the middle of a performance. I was used to difficult jobs—when you've seen lots of men die, you become hard inside and out. We interrupted the performance, and I went up to the soldiers who sat quietly in front of me on the slope of a hill. We talked for a long time, until darkness fell, then scattered, to return to our duties.

We advanced as far as Holland, where many more V-1s and V-2s were being dropped than ever before. These rockets were somewhat different from ordinary bombs: They struck without warning. It was impossible to foresee them or to protect yourself from them. Only our optimism helped us survive. Only hope kept up our morale—hope and Calvados. It made life seem rosy, and it also helped us sleep.

In the north, we performed before British troops. We varied our jokes a bit since, in comparison to the Americans, the English
are “rather dense,” or so it was said. But they certainly weren't that way on the battlefield.

The Canadians were the liveliest of all. We met them a lot in Italy. Every time there was some kind of trouble and we heard that the Canadians were coming to help us, everybody was pleased, including the General Staff. They were dependable. They had a combination of the best American and British qualities. They exhibited a British stoicism when they were entrusted with an impossible mission. And they didn't swear as much as the Americans.

In 1944 we experienced a sad Christmas, as well as the return of the lice. But by now we were ready for them, and knew how to get rid of them. Nevertheless, we were sad. Because of Christmas
and
because of the lice. We all felt down, exhausted. It was becoming harder for us to perform with the same enthusiasm as before. Although I had learned a lot, I still wasn't as good as Danny Thomas. But we had to make the soldiers happy.

The German counteroffensive had been driven back, and we pushed on ahead. But how long would this war last?

Back in my early childhood, I had learned that God doesn't fight on any army's side. So there was little point in praying. Nonetheless, before every battle prayers were read, all kinds of incantations were recited, staged by all sorts of preachers.

We attended these ceremonies, and I saw how the soldiers stood in place, as though they couldn't believe their ears. “You will be fighting.” I couldn't believe it either, but I counted for nothing.

The Jewish sermons were the most convincing, for the Old Testament says, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” This is an appropriate farewell address for a man setting out for bloody combat. I have always wondered how Christians reconcile the injunction “Turn the other cheek” with war.

But they all went, with or without prayer.

Since then, I've given up any belief in God, in a “light” that leads us, or anything of this sort. Goethe has said, “If God created this world, then he should review his plan.” Probably it's a matter of a botched plan.

The confusion continued to the day we won the war. Every
thing had come to an end; we slept in stables, tramped through villages. We waited for instructions that never came. Once again, as at the beginning of this whole thing, we waited. We were worn out, discouraged. All around us were dirty, pitiful figures waiting to be discharged and sent home. Some were sent home, others to the Pacific. The war continued there. As for us, we just sat around. We had our K rations, coffee, sleeping bags—and we waited for orders. We slept. Now we could sleep peacefully. We were sure that someone was on guard outside.