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116 D Chapter Thirty-One d an aspiring aCtress The entrance exam for future actors and actresses was scheduled to be held on the stage of the Berlin State Theater, and I had but a month to prepare myself. It was Ditte’s mother, the only grown-up who wholeheartedly approved of my plans, who rehearsed with me the parts that I would recite in the audition: Schiller’s Maid of Orleans,Shakespeare’s Juliet,and, unfortunately, Gretchen from Goethe’s Faust. On the given day, half dead with stage fright, I entered the theater, an imposing structure in the center of Berlin. I was one among thirty candidates. After being called by name, I climbed the steps leading to the stage. The glaring footlights prevented me from being able to identify any audience members—famous people,teachers,directors,actresses,and actors—who would determine my fate.Somehow, I managed to get halfway through the Maid’s monologue,when I was interrupted.Did I have anything else? Dismayed, I began Gretchen’s famous prayer, piously kneeling down on the hard stage floor. After the first few lines, I became aware of a terrifying noise coming from the auditorium. It sounded like sobbing; had I really been able to touch someone’s heart? But once more I was cut off by the same male voice. The house lights went on, and the stage lights were turned off.What I noticed bordered on naked disaster; among the two dozen people, some of whom I now recognized, was one actor who hid behind a gigantic white handkerchief, his belly shaking like a huge pudding. To my horror, he was having an uncontrollable laughing fit! I almost sank to the floor in embarrassment. Another famous character actor, Walter Franck, whom I particularly admired, managed to climb on stage. He,too,had obviously been vastly amused by so much tragedy.After clearing his throat and drying his eyes, he was finally able to say, “Well, well, little lady, no doubt you have talent, you even have a lot of talent! But for God’s sake,no prayers,no tragedies,please! The Maid? Holy smoke! And Gretchen? Ridiculous! You are a born comedienne!” Comedienne? I felt limp,already having pictured myself as another Eleanora Duse.“Go home,” he added, aware of the devastated look on my face. He gently put his arm around my shoulders in a fatherly gesture and continued, “You will hear from us,” as he stepped back down into the auditorium. “Next one, please.” Somehow I reached home and snuck up the stairs to the safety of my room. What I felt was an overwhelming desire to drop dead.The question was how? There was no poison available, no cup of hemlock, no handy dagger. Jumping out of the window would land me Destruction unlimiteD 117 on a soft flowerbed. I could think of no way by which to dramatically and radically end my miserable life as a total failure.So I just sat on a chair,brooding until nightfall.The ringing of the bell announced my father’s return from the office. How would I face him? How was I to deal with his relief, if not gloating, over my lack of talent? The telephone rang. Ten minutes later I heard my father coming up the stairs,as usual taking two steps at a time,appearing in my doorway. Before I had a chance to blurt out the disgusting details of my misfortune, he said,“I just received a phone call from Walter Franck; he wants you as his private student.” More surprising than this unbelievable bit of news was something in my father’s voice: pride! He was proud of me! Franck accepted only one private student every two years. Being among the handful of star actors at the Berlin State Theater, he could barely afford the hours as a teacher at the Academy. There were rumors that his steadfast refusal to accept parts in Nazi films, plus his constant absence from the magnificent parties that Goebbels threw at his home, had put him on the propaganda minister’s blacklist. Goebbels had taken over the movie industry , singlehandedly deciding not only what kind of films were made, but also who was and who was not to appear in them. Pretty young starlets soon found out there was only one way to stardom, through the limping little Don Juan’s bed, much to the chagrin of his wife, Magda Goebbels. Unlike the...

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