The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe (21 page)

Though Ralph Greenson later claimed to have been raised in a
hoo hoo
house in the more affluent area of Williamsburg, described as a “large Colonial home situated majestically behind a high gate which reflected the family's growing prosperity,” the fact is that the census records, the school records, and Brooklyn directories clearly establish that the Greenschpoon family lived in a tenement house that still stands at 393 Miller Avenue in Brownsville, and that they lived there from the time Romeo and Juliet were born until the family moved to Los Angeles in 1933.

After graduating from P.S. 149 midschool in 1927, Ralph Greenson later stated, he completed his undergraduate and premedical studies at Columbia University, but that wasn't exactly true, either. He never attended classes on the Columbia campus but attended Seth Low Junior College in Brooklyn. In the 1920s and well into the 1930s, Columbia maintained a quota for Jewish students, and it was very difficult for Jews to attend Columbia unless they came from an influential family. A solution to the problem of the many Jewish applicants was the establishment of Seth Low in Brooklyn by the Columbia regents. As a result the student body at Seth Low was 95 percent Jewish. That it became a hotbed of Zionist-Marxism was ultimately a problem for the Columbia regents, who disbanded Seth Low in 1937.

Graduating from Seth Low in June of 1929 with an A-B grade average, Romi found it equally difficult to attend the medical school of his choice in the United States because of the prevalent quota system. His father helped him enroll at the Medical School in Berne, Switzerland, where he stayed at a boarding house run by the Troesch family. It was there that he met Hildegard Troesch, who would become his lifelong companion
and devoted wife. Hildi's older brother had been a member of the Communist Youth movement in Berne and later became a leader of the Communist Party in Switzerland.

After completing medical school in 1932, Romi traveled to Vienna and studied psychoanalysis under the imaginative but somewhat erratic Wilhelm Stekel. Stekel, who was one of Freud's earliest adherents and a founding member of the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society, was also a Freudian-Marxist and had much in common with Romeo Greenschpoon. The grandiloquent Viennese analyst was described by Freud's biographer, Peter Gay, as “intuitive and indefatigable…Though entertaining company, he alienated many with his boastfulness”—traits that could one day equally describe Dr. Ralph Greenson.

Romi married Hildi Troesch in 1935, and by the time he had completed his studies in Vienna and returned to the United States, Papa Greenschpoon had moved the family to Los Angeles, where he opened an office as a general practitioner on Fairfax Avenue. Romeo's twin, Juliet, had married a successful pediatrician with an office in Beverly Hills, Dr. Max Belous; and his younger sister, Elizabeth, had become a concert pianist and was dating a young promising Los Angeles attorney by the name of Milton “Mickey” Rudin.

In 1936 Romi and Hildi moved into a small apartment at 633 North Berendo Street, not far from the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital in Hollywood, where he did his internship along with a fellow intern, Dr. Hyman Engelberg. Mickey Rudin recalls that it was at this time, when Romi Greenson and Hy Engelberg were interns at Cedars, that he first became an acquaintance of Engelberg and his wife, Esther.

It was following the completion of his internship in 1937 that Romeo Greenschpoon and his brother Washington Irving Greenschpoon legally changed their names to Ralph and Walter Greenson, and Dr. Ralph R. Greenson opened his office and set up his couch at 1930 Wilshire Boulevard. He had ingratiated himself with Ernst Simmel and Francis Deri at the Southern California Psychoanalytic Study Group, and it was Simmel who introduced him to Otto Fenichel upon Fenichel's arrival from Europe in 1938. A close friendship began.

The war interrupted Ralph Greenson's career just as it was beginning. “I was just getting to earn some money,” Greenson recalled. “I got an office in Beverly Hills and was going to pay back Fenichel, and pay for the furniture in the office, and by this time I was drafted.”

Entering the United States Army in 1942, he was assigned to a psychi
atric ward at the Army Air Force Convalescent Hospital at Fort Logan, Colorado, and it was there that Greenson discovered he had a gift for teaching. He began giving seminars to psychiatrists and medical personnel on how to treat the mental casualties of war. Leo Rosten's popular book,
Captain Newman, M.D.
, which was made into a motion picture starring Gregory Peck in 1964, was largely modeled on Captain Greenson's wartime experiences. In describing Captain Newman (Greenson), Rosten stated, “The mannerisms he had always displayed, that unpredictable interplay between the wry, the weary, the impatient, the disenchantment—he was spilling over with responsiveness…. His seminars were jammed from the beginning, and they were about as lively, unorthodox, and illuminating as any I ever heard. He loved to teach. He loved to perform.”

In describing his experiences at Fort Logan, Greenson states, “At this time Colonel Murray comes to the post from the Air Force in Washington, and he says, ‘Look, Greenson, I want to tell you something. Do you know why I'm here?' I said, ‘no.' He said, ‘I'm looking where to set up a teaching hospital in psychiatry. I've just made my decision.' He said, ‘I'm going to set it up at Fort Logan, and I'm setting it up and you're going to be my assistant.' And by God he came. A few months later and there he was. Colonel John M. Murray was Commanding Officer of the Psychiatric Unit, and I was his assistant.”

Was it the same John M. Murray who was married to Eunice? The same labor organizer whom Norman Jefferies described as a strange “well educated man versed in history and the arts and spoke six languages”? The same John M. Murray who “wasn't home much, or even in Los Angeles unless it was on party business”?

In the many books and biographies on the subject of Marilyn Monroe very few facts are revealed of the relationship between Dr. Greenson and John and Eunice Murray. The unlikely “friendship” between Dr. Greenson and Eunice Murray has never been clarified. In her book,
Marilyn: The Last Months
, Eunice Murray scarcely mentions her husband, or the circumstances of her association with Dr. Greenson. The coauthor of that book, her niece Rose Shade, states, “She was drawn to psychology, feeling a need to work with people and their problems. Eunice read and studied, and when an opportunity came to care for a psychiatric case in the patient's home, Eunice was prepared with enough knowledge and understanding to work under the guidance of a psychiatrist as his aide, helping in any kind of therapy that seemed indicated. She worked with many kinds of patients.”

Yet this is among the many bewildering contradictions in the strange life of Eunice Murray. There is no documentation of any eductional qualifications in the psychatric field, nor any evidence of any cases in which she may have been involved. Deepening the mystery, neither Hildi Greenson nor the Greenson children, nor the Murray children, will discuss the relationship between Dr. Greenson and John and Eunice Murray.

The military records of Colonel John M. Murray indicate he was born in 1897, the same year as Eunice's husband. Colonel Murray studied psychiatry in Vienna in 1932, the same year that Romi Greenschpoon was a student. They both apparently knew Otto Fenichel, who was a frequent lecturer in Vienna, and who was brought to Fort Logan for seminars.

All that could be attributed to coincidence, but Colonel Murray was a founder of the Boston Psychoanalytic Institute, and a photograph of him at the Institute taken in 1942 bears a striking resemblance to the one extant photograph of Eunice Murray's husband taken in 1957. Handwriting samples of the two John M. Murrays are strikingly similar.

Norman Jefferies said John M. Murray was frequently on the East Coast or in Mexico on party business. Did one of the John M. Murrays lead a double life as a frequent flier on the Comintern triangle?

A
nother exile who had sought refuge from the European storm was Andre de Dienes, a young Transylvanian with a Gypsy heart, who had traversed the nomadic trails of European café society before settling down in New York City as a
Vogue
fashion photographer. Romantic by nature, he was a fervent sensualist and had an epicurean eye for the female form. His wanderlust took him to Hollywood, where he called the Blue Book Modeling Agency and requested a shapely model.

Yes, Miss Snively did have a young girl on the books, who had little experience but might fill the bill. An hour later Norma Jeane Dougherty was knocking at de Diene's door at the Garden of Allah. She wore a tight pink sweater, her light-brown curly hair was tied with a ribbon to match her outfit, and in her hand she carried a hatbox containing a skimpy swimsuit.

“My name is Norma Jeane,” she said. “Are you Mr. d-de Di-Dienes?”

He wasn't prepared for what stood on the threshold. “In one fell swoop I was intrigued, moved and attracted by her,” de Dienes recalled, “the firm, well-rounded breasts, a trim waist set off by the perfect curve of her hip, long, lithe legs.”

He picked her up early the next morning at Aunt Ana's home. It was a bright November morning in 1945 on a beach in Malibu that Norma Jeane, without makeup, danced in the golden freshness of the dawn—whirling, prancing, sinking to the sand, jumping to her feet, brimming over with the joy of life in a ballet with the camera choreographed by Andre de Dienes.

What had been captured on film that day was developed that night in the photographer's darkroom. “As I watched the prints appear in the developing bath, I became more convinced of her great future, and more determined to do some extended location work with her,” de Dienes remembered.

Mrs. Snively observed, “She still seemed a scared, pretty lonely little kid who wore mostly fresh white cotton dresses, and wanted somebody somewhere to think she was worth something.” De Dienes made her feel special, buying her clothes and jewelry to be used in the photo sessions. His energetic liberating spirit took Norma Jeane out of her pit of loneliness. To de Dienes she could reveal her wild heart and share her tumultuous daydreams.

Driving off in de Dienes's black Buick convertible early one morning in the first week of December, they headed for the Mojave Desert and Death Valley. That first night they stayed at Furnace Creek, and much to de Dienes's disappointment, Norma Jeane insisted on her own room. When he knocked on her door in the middle of the night, she smiled and calmly asked him to be good and go back to bed.

It was well past daybreak when he awoke, and de Dienes's favorite time for shooting was eluding him as the sun rose in the cloudless sky. He found Norma Jeane was already up and dressed, looking as bright as the dawn. “There she was fresh as a daisy, wearing a polo-neck sweater, slacks, and a smile,” de Dienes remembered. “I felt I could not photograph her too often that day.”

“Run!”
click
“Leap!”
click
and he talks to her of wild things and daydreams
click
of mountains of gold and riches
click
fame
click click
“Turn! Arch your back!”
click
The firm, well-rounded breasts
click
and tousled hair in the golden sun
click
“Jump!”
click
the perfect curve of the hips
click click
and the eagles soar against the cobalt sky as she laughs and kisses the sunshine amid the endless vistas and infinite freedom of youth
click
and nature
click
and beauty
click click click!

 

It was dark when they arrived in Portland. Norma Jeane had spoken to Grace Goddard on the phone and learned that her mother, who had been released from the institution in Agnew, was living alone in a hotel room in Portland, Oregon. Annoyed with himself for allowing Norma Jeane to persuade him to drive so far north, de Dienes accompanied her to the hotel in the center of town, where they found Gladys in a stark, depressing room on the top floor. He recalls that the meeting was awkward, and that they had nothing to say to each other. Norma Jeane unpacked the presents she had bought and put on a cheerful front. She tried to engage her mother in conversation but Gladys didn't respond. “Mrs. Baker buried her face in her hands and seemed to forget all about us,” de Dienes recalled. “It was distressing. She had obviously been released from the hospital too soon.”

When they left, they headed south again. It was raining and growing dark, and de Dienes could see that Norma Jeane was depressed. It was again the holiday season, eleven Christmases since Gladys had been taken away, and it was seven years since Norma Jeane had last visited her mother. According to de Dienes, a veil of sadness seemed to envelop her, and there was nothing he could say or do to lift her spirits.

Soon the icy rain turned to snow and the dark road was becoming impassable. Not far from Mt. Hood they made out some lights shining from an old brick hotel called Government Lodge. According to de Dienes there was only one vacancy—a room with a double bed.

 

When de Dienes and Norma Jeane returned to Los Angeles there was a message waiting from Jim Dougherty. His ship had docked on the East Coast. He was heading home by train and wired the time of his arrival. Learning of her husband's return, Andre de Dienes informed Norma Jeane that a friend in New York had died unexpectedly, and he suddenly left town, having added another shapely model to his portfolio.

When Dougherty arrived at Union Station, his wife wasn't there to greet him. “She was an hour late,” Dougherty remembers. “When she did show up—with
my
car—she said she had been at a modeling job and it had taken longer than she figured. Before, I always had received a warm homecoming, a genuine feeling of love and a sense that she had missed me terribly. Now it was a little cool. There was an embrace and a kiss, but it was different.”

Though he was home for two weeks, Dougherty recalls that they had only two or three evenings together during his leave. “She was busy mod
eling, earning good money. It was my first inkling of her ambition, and instead of me being the center of her attention the way it had been on my first trip home, now I was incidental. I was squeezed into her busy day, and resentment set in early. Norma Jeane wasn't talking about our future anymore either. It was her career nearly all the time.”

When Dougherty looked at his bankbook, he noted that all the savings had been drawn out—most of it spent on clothes for modeling. “She would show me her new dresses and shoes as though I cared about such things,” Dougherty reflected. “She had a collection of all these magazines she'd appeared in. She was beginning to appear on a number of covers and was very proud of that. She expected me to be, too, but all I was, was queasy. I had a sinking feeling in my gut.”

 

Apparently Grace Goddard and Norma Jeane had discussed the distressing visit with her mother in Portland, and it was arranged for Gladys to stay with the Goddards in Van Nuys until Norma Jeane could find a place for her mother to stay. Dougherty has a vivid memory of going with Norma Jeane to the Greyhound bus station in downtown Los Angeles to pick up Gladys. Dougherty had never seen Gladys before, and it was something of a shock. “She was wearing an all-white outfit and looked more like a nurse,” Dougherty said. “She was polite enough, but she didn't seem to connect with me at all. Her mind was out in left field somewhere. I never saw her angry, and I never saw her laugh.”

Recalling the showdown he had with Norma Jeane in January, shortly before he was to report back for sea duty, Dougherty said, “I saw myself losing out, little by little, and I thought, ‘Hell, this is no way to live!'…I thought I'd given her modeling career a fair trial, well over a year, and she was letting our home life slide more and more. So I just told her that she would have to choose between a modeling career or a home life with me like we had in Catalina. Then she got very emotional. She said I was gone too much. How could I expect her to be a housewife when I was at sea more than half the time? ‘Catalina was wonderful,' she said, ‘but when are you coming home to stay?' I knew I was losing the fight to keep us together,” Dougherty acknowledged. “She knew what she wanted, and I couldn't offer her anything except promises. When I shipped out again, she must have figured that the most important one had been broken.”

 

Jim was gone again, and not knowing when he would return, Norma Jeane concentrated on her career. With the de Dienes photos, Emmeline Snively had an exceptional portfolio of pictures to circulate, and Norma Jeane became very much in demand. In February and March 1946 she posed for photographer Joe Jasgur and artist Earl Moran. Moran took snapshots of her in a variety of poses, and would then do pastels of them for Brown and Bigelow, a major calendar-art and postcard company. She became Moran's favorite model, and he paid her ten dollars an hour for posing on numerous occasions over the course of the next four erratic and hungry years. Commenting on her talent, Moran later stated, “She knew exactly what to do; her movements, her hands, her body were just perfect. She was the sexiest. Better than anyone else.”

By February 1946, Norma Jeane was earning enough money to rent Ana Lower's downstairs apartment on Nebraska Avenue, and have her mother move in with her. The expediency of the move may have had its origins in problems enveloping the Goddard household. According to Bebe, by the time Grace and Doc Goddard had moved back to Van Nuys they had both succumbed to alcoholism, and their life was at times chaotic.

Though living with Gladys presented emotional and practical difficulties, Norma Jeane had a real desire to know her mother and mend their estrangement. On most Sunday mornings Aunt Ana, Gladys, and her daughter attended Christian Science services together in Westwood Village. Emmeline Snively had a vivid recollection of an unexpected visit by Norma Jeane's mother at the Blue Book Modeling Agency. An apparition in white, Gladys suddenly appeared at Miss Snively's door wearing her white dress, white shoes, white stockings, and white hat. The two ladies spent an hour discussing Norma Jeane's career. When Gladys got up to leave she took Emmeline's hand and said, “I only came so I could thank you personally for what you've been doing for Norma Jeane. You've given her a whole new life!”

Emmeline Snively felt that Norma Jeane could be more successful as a blonde, and she frequently suggested lightening her hair, but Norma Jeane protested that she wouldn't look natural. Miss Snively pointed out to her, “If you intend to go places, you've got to bleach, dear. The biggest demand is for blondes. A blonde can be photographed light, medium, or dark by controlling the light. The way your hair is now you'll always come out more dark than light.” Nevertheless, Norma Jeane remained stubborn about not changing her hair.

In the spring of 1946 commercial photographer Raphael Wolff called
Emmeline Snively to say that he wanted to use Norma Jeane for a series of Lustre Creme shampoo ads at ten dollars an hour, but he wouldn't hire her unless she became a blonde. He added that he would pay for the bleach job himself. Norma Jeane gave in and was sent to the Hollywood hairstyling salon of Frank and Joseph, where her hair was bleached golden blond and styled in a sophisticated upsweep.

At first she thought it looked artificial. “It wasn't the ‘real me,'” she said, and she had difficulty getting used to the other woman whose strange, exotic image stared back at her from the looking glass. But she soon recognized the image as the same friend who had disrupted the math class at Emerson and caused incidents of whiplash on the beaches of Southern California. As a blonde she noted that heads turned a little faster and wolf whistles were a little shriller.

But to be a blonde demanded a certain commitment. Blondes are different. Shapely blondes fall into a mythological morphology. They dress differently, think differently, act differently. Studying the reflection of the blonde in the mirror, she must have recognized something that was true to herself—something that was blond inside.

And as she stared at the strange, exotic image of the other woman, Norma Jeane stepped through the looking glass and became a blonde forever.