Marlene (7 page)

I declaimed my lines with as much “resonance” as possible. Later, when I said good night to Elisabeth Bergner, I never imagined that one day she would become my friend.

I had also come to know an actress named Anni Mewes, who
would call me several times a week. Once she asked me: “Can you fill in for me in a play? All I have is one line. My dress will fit you beautifully. But don't tell anybody about it. Just go there and make your entrance after the following dialogue. Get a pencil and write it down.”

I really enjoyed doing favors for others. Also, it allowed me to visit many different theaters, recite many odd lines, but not many dialogues. The roles were utterly unimportant, but then again somebody had to play them.

While I played Anni Mewes's small role, she was probably dancing or otherwise having fun in some “night spot.” The parts were so small that no one ever caught on to our trick. Sometimes things were not so simple, and Anni had to explain certain details more exactly. This was the case with the play
The Great Baritone
starring Albert Basserman.

I had to get myself ready in her dressing room, which she shared with some other actresses, and then go on stage and deliver a single line: “You are wonderful.” Anni Mewes had explained to me that it was extremely important to wear her gloves and leave the last button open. After my partner embraced me, I had to extend my hand so he could kiss the inside of my arm. I followed her instructions conscientiously.

The only role I played worth mentioning was in George Bernard Shaw's
Misalliance.
I had several lines to say in this one, and for the first time in my so-called theatrical career, I drew a ripple of laughter from the audience with the words: “But papa.”

I also remember a comic incident from this time. The play in question was being staged by Max Reinhardt in one of his small, intimate theaters with Elisabeth Bergner in the leading role.

She entered the stage by descending an imposing, arched staircase. Below stood a table around which sat four people playing bridge. I was one of them, and all I had to say was: “I pass.”

As was the fashion in those days I was wearing a pale gray custom-tailored dress. When I tried it on, I was surprised to discover that it was brightly spangled with pearls and diamonds, but only on the back. When I asked about this, I was told that
during the entire scene I was not to turn around, not even once, so that there was no need to adorn the front part of the dress.

I understood and said nothing.

I relate this anecdote to show how unimportant my roles were. Yet, because I sat with my back to the audience, I could all the better see and enjoy Elisabeth Bergner's splendid entrance on stage via the staircase. The first word she spoke was “Damn!” I was so fascinated to hear this word spoken that I often forgot my “I pass,” but nobody noticed this. The other actors continued as though nothing had happened; nobody made mention of my omission. I was an insignificant extra (or supernumerary as they say today). So when I read the chapters that my “biographers” devote to this time where they claim that I had become a “famous actress,” I can only laugh. I was completely unknown, a mere beginner, one among hundreds of amateur actresses, just another pupil attending the Max Reinhardt Drama School.

But I was not discontented with my lot; I was quite happy just to be in contact with great actors and actresses. I did what was asked of me, as I also always did later both in my life and in my work.

I made still other appearances in many plays, mostly in silent roles, usually magnificently made up. As a rule, I spent more time getting myself ready than actually performing. The leading performers never spoke to us, and we were afraid of them. But we didn't engage in any “star cult.” We observed them so attentively only because we admired their performances. Learn, learn, learn—that was our motto and our job.

I was one of the “silent observers” in Frank Wedekind's
Pandora's Box.
Believe it or not, I knew nothing at all about the play because I appeared only in the third act. To this day, I don't know what it is about.

I took pains to appear older, to look like a grown woman. At home I rehearsed in one of my mother's dresses, walking and swaying my hips like a kept woman. And every day I worked with Rudolf Sieber, with whom I was—and was to be for a long time—head over heels in love.

I took more singing lessons, visited the Max Reinhardt
Drama School, and learned a lot of classic roles I knew I would never play. I avidly learned the entire modern repertoire of ingenue roles, without, however, convincing my superiors who would make a face after the audition. Emotion-laden monologues did not suit my tone. So I had to acquire another style. I had to slip with great difficulty into the skin of another woman. I didn't like this woman. But, being well mannered, I learned all her outrageous lines.

There were more rehearsals, and I was ready to captivate the public with my presentation of the “femme fatale.”

And again it was a flop. My teachers explained I was too young for this type. Another disappointment, but my zeal for work did not suffer.

My mother was relieved when I stayed home to work or read. She didn't particularly care about what I was doing as long as my nose was stuck in a book.

She cared as little for “the theater” as she did for “the film.” But she put up with it all against her will, probably in the hope that I would meet someone who would break my attachment to the stage once and for all. But I was stubborn.

Rudolf Sieber had suggested I wear a monocle so as to appear more provocative. At that time the monocle symbolized the height of the macabre.

My mother gave me my father's monocle that she had kept for years.

Wearing one of her dresses, with my father's monocle tucked in my eye, my hair done up in hundreds of curls and locks, cosmeticized by some listless makeup artist who didn't have the slightest interest in lowly beginners, I walked on stage and took a few steps toward my future husband. I was as blind as a bat, but the monocle stayed in place. Rudolf Sieber must have laughed to himself when he spotted me in this getup. But he didn't show it.

He even managed to get me a small role in a film—again I had only one line. I loved Rudolf Sieber, not because he helped me but because he was blond, tall and clever—everything that a young girl longs for. The only problem was that he wasn't at all interested in young girls.

At that time—according to rumor at least—he was having a stormy love affair with the daughter of a theater director, a very beautiful movie actress.

And so I suffered. Luckily for me, the scenes in the gambling casino had to be shot over and over again, and since I was a “crowd extra” I was often called to the studio. I would see Rudolf, but he never spoke to me.

It was unthinkable to take this matter up at home. My mother had withdrawn into herself. She expressed no opinion of any kind. Nor did she ever speak of my adventures in the “world of film,” a phrase offensive to her ear. For her film and circus were one and the same thing. And the circus was the complete opposite of the life she had imagined for me. In her eyes that world would prove disastrous for a young girl of my age.

She was so worried that she had terrible nightmares. She was afraid that I would allow myself to be misled into a sinful life and ruin myself forever.

She did not realize that I was immune to such dangers. Although she had brought me up to be this way, she wasn't at all sure she had succeeded.

To return to my outlandish outfit: I was led to the gambling table, then Rudolf Sieber and his assistants told me what I was to do and where I was supposed to go. At times he would run up to me to give me advice. Hopelessly in love, anxiety-ridden, I would wait for these brief encounters.

When I returned home after three days under his direction, I told my mother: “I've met the man I want to marry.” My mother didn't faint on the spot or lose her composure. Instead she said to me, “If you really want that, we'll see what we can do.” But she never allowed me to meet Rudolf Sieber outside the studio, despite his telephone calls and his invitations to dinner in a restaurant or to go for a stroll.

Yet he didn't give up. He came to the house to speak with my mother (after making an appointment, of course), but after this meeting she was no happier than she had been when all I did was talk about him.

He could not know that at home I was not the same girl as at
the studio, the girl with the monocle in her eye playing the most depraved prostitute. Though, of course, he knew that that was only a role. Otherwise he wouldn't have courted me the way he did. He could see I was only bluffing. He was nice, he was gentle. He gave me the feeling that I could trust him, and this feeling was sustained during all the years of our marriage. Our trust was reciprocal and total.

We were young. Such mutual faith back then was extremely rare in the decadent, cynical world of Germany in the twenties. Rudolf meant everything to me.

We got married after a year's engagement during which we were never alone. There was always a chaperone with us, always a “spy” who kept a watchful eye on us. Rudolf Sieber must have had an angel's patience to endure all these restrictions. He never complained. On the day of our marriage, my mother placed the myrtle wreath on my head; the family members, in uniform or in civilian clothes, crowded into the church. And I, sentimental and romantic as always, wept when I looked at Rudolf who seemed so calm.

He loved me with all his heart without, however, sharing my penchant for sentimentality. He detested mawkishness. He gave feeling a higher priority and racked his brains trying to teach me the difference between the two. And he succeeded, as he did in everything close to his heart.

Even after we were married, he didn't have a simple life. We observed all the amenities and traditions, but he still felt he was not fully accepted by my family. I was not intelligent or clever enough to help him over this abyss that separated him from my relatives, but I continued to hope for the best, continued to look on the bright side of things, deciding that if I loved him, all the others would finally love him, too.

Fortunately, I was soon pregnant, as I wanted to be, and this worked to bring Rudolf closer to my family.

He was frequently called away on trips by the film work he was engaged in. Then I would be alone. Each time he left, he was considerate enough to bring me to my mother so she could take care of me; his young wife with the bulging belly would be better able to rest in her mother's living room than in her own.

That didn't bother me. I was carrying so many wonders inside me. A new life was developing within me. Another heart was beating next to mine, everything that was happening to me seemed wonderful, as if coming out of an ethereal novel written specially for me. I actually felt that I was the only person who had ever carried a child beneath her heart.

Whenever my husband returned from a trip, he would embrace me and kiss my belly where the child, our daughter, was growing. We searched for a first name, a first name for “her” and we found one that was to represent all my hopes and dreams: Maria. Maria!

She was born. I screamed and suffered as women throughout time have suffered. I screamed and suffered and brought a little girl into the world.

Nothing really extraordinary. I breast-fed her for nine months. Mothers who do not breast-feed their babies don't know what they are missing: inner happiness, of course, but also health for the newborn. Babies who are breast-fed do not cry and scream as much as bottle-fed babies. The house was peaceful between the two breast-feedings. The milk makes the mother's breast swell, which in turn, comforts the child and assures it peace and tranquility. All is quiet and peaceful, all attention is focused on the mother and the child …

So it was with our child, Maria. She was our supreme joy in addition to our marital happiness.

A home without a child is not a home. I was convinced of this even before I had a child. It belongs to the mysterious intuition that a young and ignorant soul possesses. Suddenly the whole world goes off in another direction, and everything revolves only around a child in a cradle.

This cradle becomes the center of the world.

I was sad for the first time on the day I had to stop breast-feeding. Although I drank many quarts of tea and beer and conscientiously followed the best advice, I could nourish her only for nine months.

Gradually I resumed my work—Maria was an uncomplicated
child who slept through the night and never woke up to demand her bottle—but the films I was making were nothing special.

When I began this book I decided to relate only the essential events of my life and career. My so-called biographers eagerly published a long list of films in which I had appeared at that time and supposedly played leading roles. This is not so. When Josef von Sternberg chose me for
The Blue Angel,
he was hiring an unknown. It was not until 1930, in Hollywood and after
Morocco,
that I really became a star. However, I consider such matters trivial and superficial, despite the typically American notion that an actress's career is determined by whether her name appears prominently over or under the title on the movie poster.

I didn't find being placed above the title worth all the effort. It involved too much responsibility. For one's peace of mind, it's better to stay below. But there were no such problems with
The Blue Angel.
The name Marlene Dietrich appeared as one of the supporting cast.

I had learned modesty from my early experience in the theater. My name on the programs was miniscule. You'd need a magnifying glass to decipher it. As I've said, Max Reinhardt never deemed me worthy of a glance. This was only right, I suppose, because he certainly had more important things to do than “discover” the hidden talents of young actresses like me. So my appearance on the Berlin stage held no great importance for me, except on one occasion …