Marlene (18 page)

The relatives: Uncle Hermann, Aunt Ida, and Max Dietrich

Marlene Dietrich as Shanghai Lily in the film
Shanghai Express,
1932

Marlene Dietrich and Josef von Sternberg, 1930

In the garden of her house in Beverly Hills, early thirties

Marlene Dietrich as Catherine II in the film
The Scarlet Empress,
1934

Marlene Dietrich as a Spanish dancer in the film
The Devil Is a Woman,
1935

Marlene Dietrich in the Selznick film
The Garden of Allah,
1936

Marlene Dietrich under the direction of William Dieterle in the film
Kismet
, 1944

Marlene Dietrich and Orson Welles as magicians in the film
Follow the Boys,
1944

Almost the greatest of my “heroes”!

When I was making a film in London, my dear friends Mr. and Mrs. Spoliansky offered to introduce me to Fleming. I didn't want to make his acquaintance at all, I just wanted to have a look at him, if only from a distance. But they assured me it would be easy for me to meet him. A relative of theirs, Dr. Hindle, who became famous through his researches on the yellow fever virus, could arrange a dinner at their place if I would prepare the menu. I trembled with anxiety, wired Erich Maria Remarque in New York and asked him which wine I should serve with the dinner, and he
answered me promptly. Why all this excitement? Because Alexander Fleming had the reputation of being an excellent connoisseur of wine and London's greatest gourmet to boot.

What a challenge! I got permission to leave the studio early, and I was at my friends' at the right time for the banquet I had thought up and believed I could prepare. At eight on the dot Alexander Fleming was at the door, accompanied by Dr. Hindle.

I took his coat, a simple gesture that almost moved me to tears because the little chain on the collar (that was supposed to serve as hanger) was torn. I knew Fleming was a widower. My friends and I had decided in advance that penicillin was never to be mentioned during our table talk since I was convinced he no longer wanted to hear anything about it.

We sat down at the table. I observed Fleming, who ate as though there was nothing and nobody around him. I was quiet. But my table companion, Dr. Hindle, heartily helped himself, praised the dishes, the wine, the tastiness of each course. I thought he was doing that just to calm and reassure me. I uncorked one bottle of wine after the other (those Remarque had recommended), and finally the dinner was over. Dr. Hindle had been the “gourmet” of the evening. I felt uneasy because Fleming had not uttered a word. I wondered if it was due to a suspicion of admirers, male and female, something I would have understood only too well. Finally, we rose from the table and made our way to the living room.

Again silence, again embarrassment on my part. Would my friends keep their promise?

They did. We spoke about the great success of Mischa Spoliansky's “Tell Me Tonight” (“Be Mine Tonight”), about all the songs he had written. Fleming hummed some bars from “Tonight or Never” and, here and there, proudly sang a few words.

Suddenly Fleming placed a hand in the pocket of his jacket. An angel streaked through the room.

From his pocket he produced a tiny object, which he handed me across the table. “I've brought you something.” I touched his hand and took the object. It was a little, round glass jar. “That's the
only thing I thought I could give you,” he said. “It's the first penicillin culture.”

We were on the verge of tears (except Dr. Hindle, of course), and the evening ended with kisses and the vow never to lose sight of each other. Upon my return to America I regularly sent Fleming eggs and other groceries at that time lacking in England. He married again and didn't have to spend his last years in loneliness.

Again a lonely human being, again a genius. That's what they all have in common—loneliness.

Monuments have been erected to the honor of pop singers, but I have never seen one to the glory of Sir Alexander Fleming. Perhaps there is one somewhere. He deserves it.

I admired Orson Welles before we met.

Fletcher Markle, one of his pupils, made many radio broadcasts with me. I'm indebted to him for the opportunity to dedicate myself to roles as different as Anna Karenina and Camille, and to occupy myself with the modern repertoire, things never offered to me in films.

Orson Welles was already inaccessible then, and we became close friends only when I substituted for Rita Hayworth in a magic act that had been organized in Hollywood for GIs.

At that time Rita was filming for Columbia Pictures and Harry Cohn, the tyrant, had forbidden her to appear before ordinary GIs. So, Orson Welles urgently needed a new, popular actress.

I rushed to his assistance, of course. This work, which required that I show up every evening at seven o'clock, was lots of fun. Orson Welles had rented a lot in Hollywood on which a huge tent had been erected. The actress Agnes Moorehead arranged the guest appearances, and we took care of the regular act. We financed the actual performance. Tickets for the first three rows were sold at a high price so that Orson Welles could pay the extras.
He had learned a thousand and one magic tricks, but for him that was still not enough. He performed the tricks other magicians conventionally demonstrate in a reverse sequence, beginning at the end and finishing at the beginning. Evening after evening I would watch him, before and after my own entrance, but I never succeeded in seeing through the tricks. Later, however, when I organized performances for the army and needed different numbers, he let me in on some of them. In particular he taught me mind reading. Welles was extremely generous. Like all great talents his inner richness protected him from pettiness, and he let others share in his ideas, his experiences, and his dreams. He made it so easy to love him.

When I was discharged from the army, I was penniless. Welles offered me his house. I settled down in it and worked with him on the radio until the war in the Pacific came to an end. We spent most of our time in the studio in front of a microphone at which he was much better than I was.