by Anne Edwards
Around Christmas, I had one last call from her. “I’m leaving Sid,” she cried. “He’s going to kill me if I don’t.” She departed for the States on New Year’s Eve, flying back alone almost immediately after a record blizzard—snow and wind like London had not experienced in over fifty years. Later, on air, she would tell TV talk show host Jack Paar, “I went for a walk in the snow [during the blizzard]. Suddenly, I realized I didn’t give a damn about him [Luft] . . . for a few hours it was difficult—like being shot out of a cannon. It was really terrifying.”
“The blizzard?” Paar asked.
“No, leaving Sid. I thought he might come after me.”
Sy had returned. I remember that he brought me a huge bottle of my favorite perfume from “Freddie’s,” the duty-free shop in Paris that everyone with a passport and air ticket visited before leaving Paris as the prices were so good. We went to the River Club after dinner. It was late, maybe eleven p.m. The River Club, which was on the shore of the Thames, was not the best place to be in the freaky, freezing weather and winds that January. The wind howled, the premises shook, and the lights flickered, but it did not seem to impede the gamblers at the table where Sy was playing.
At first he was losing but he kept on playing. It got to be three a.m. I considered calling a taxi and leaving. “Not when I’m behind,” he whispered in my ear and then ordered the waiter to bring me a chicken sandwich. Suddenly, his luck turned. He was winning big. Pale light came through the seaside windows. The storm had passed and it was almost morning. By five a.m. a large mound of chips were stacked beside him. I made a rough guess that he had won something in the neighborhood of fifteen to twenty thousand pounds. When the next hand was dealt he pushed the entire pile into the center of the table. He was betting all he had on one draw. He lost the game, giving no evidence in his attitude that this affected him in any way. At the start of the evening he had given me chips that amounted to one hundred pounds. He now asked for their return and handed them to the dealer as a tip, made some small talk with the other players, and had the staff call us a taxi. We rode in silence for a few minutes. Then he said, “Keep the weekend open. Maybe we’ll go to Paris.”
I called him the next day to say I wouldn’t be going and that it would be best if we didn’t see each other for a while (my decision made after a session with Phil).
“For a while? You mean you want to break up?”
I told him it just wasn’t working. There was too much disparity between our lifestyles. I needed mental stimulation, perhaps more than sexual satisfaction. I loved the theater, ballet, the opera, the concert hall, not celebrity gathering spots and gambling casinos. And maybe, I loved him. At least felt strongly about him, cared for him—and Laura. I added that this was not an easy decision for me. But my kids came first before anything or anyone else. And most important, I needed to be in control of my life, to keep my identity as a working writer, and somehow in our relationship I was losing ground and feeling more like an attachment than a separate person.
“This is it, then?” His voice had hardened.
“Yes.”
“Your spin,” he said. “It was good while it lasted.”
“Yes, it was,” I agreed.
“I guess there’s nothing more to be said.”
“Nothing.”
He cleared his throat and after a moment signed off.
I had not told him that I was pregnant.
I needed some time to think. So, instead of Paris, I flew to Switzerland and boarded a train for Klosters to visit my friend Salka Viertel. I first met Salka when I was a junior writer at MGM. She had been a noted actress in Poland in the days of silent film. She married the Viennese director Berthold Viertel and they both immigrated to Hollywood in 1929. Salka would find fame in American films, not as an actress, but as a scriptwriter, whereas Berthold would not do well in the transition. Salka was quick to learn to speak English and would write the screenplays for many of Greta Garbo’s most celebrated movies—Queen Christina, Anna Karenina, and Conquest among them. She and Berthold led separate lives. She had a house in Santa Monica where she hosted a fabulous French-style salon every Sunday afternoon where intellectuals and well-known artists comingled.
I had been introduced to Salka on the MGM lot by William Fadiman, the head of the story department and my boss when I was a junior writer. He said some small complimentary thing about my talent and writing potential. Salka made a passing remark that I should come to one of her Sunday afternoon gatherings. This was followed up with a note that requested my presence the following Sunday. I was honored and in wonder at being invited. I was, after all, only seventeen years old.
One particular afternoon remains vivid in my memory. Gathered in Salka’s front parlor and dining room, furnished in grand European style were Greta Garbo, Charlie Chaplin (Salka’s great friend), writers Thomas Mann, Lion Feuchtwanger, and Stephen Spender. Chaplin came with his elder son, Charles Jr., just two years older than I. Being the youngest in a group of about thirty people, we naturally gravitated toward each other. I would have two or three dates with him after that. I recall him as being a highly emotional young man, not very happy although creating a facade of being so. Salka knew I was an ardent admirer of Thomas Mann, and she made a point of carting me over to where the great writer and his wife were standing and then introducing me. For I believe the one and only time in my life, I was tongue-tied. He was kind and said a few words to me and must have been relieved when someone else approached to demand his attention.
Rumors proliferated in Hollywood (squashed by the ever-vigilant studio publicity corps) that Salka and Garbo were lovers. I do not know that as fact. I was often in both their company in Klosters in the fifties and sixties where Garbo was the frequent guest of Salka. They were most certainly close, dear friends—to that I can attest. They put on no airs with each other. Lesbian lovers? Quite honestly that was beyond my ken to discern. Even at the age I was during that time, I had little knowledge of lesbian relationships beyond what I had read in books of fiction. I pretty much thought what I still do today: physical love between two adults is a private matter and a love strong enough to bond them, whatever their race, color, religion, or sex should be respected. Also, when I visited Salka in Klosters, both women were in their sixties and I saw nothing of a romantic nature pass between them. They were two women of a certain age who had mutual interests and had shared important events of their lives.
Wherever Salka lived she established une maison Cocotte of the most interesting and celebrated of artists living or visiting Switzerland who eventually made their way to Klosters. This visit was my third or fourth. Later, I would have a chalet in Klosters. In earlier times, such as followed my breakup with Sy, I stayed at the Chesa Grischuna and brought Cathy with me as Salka had a grandchild, the daughter of her son, the writer Peter Viertel. She lived with Salka when she was not at her Swiss boarding school. Michael had remained in London as a guest of the Adlers.
The Chesa was a special hotel, set well, looking up to the awesome crest of the Gotschna, the Swiss Alps. It was January and the height of the skiing season. The small town was crowded with skiing groups moving in a solid parade to and from the slopes. If warmly dressed I got used to the cold, which was much dryer than London winters, and on most days shafts of sunlight would cut through the clouds and I could sit on the terrace of the Chesa drinking hot chocolate and feel the warmth of the sun lay its hand on my back.
The interior of the Chesa smelled sharply of the fragrant wood used in its construction. There was a great fireplace in the wood-beamed dining room. Meals were included, and you had the same table for the duration of your stay. The rooms were small, cozy, low ceilinged, the beds covered in thick down quilts. Despite the season there were geraniums in the outside window boxes in full bloom, a phenomenon that never ceased to fill me with wonder.
Salka had been blacklisted. She was, it seemed, no longer writing, her life for the time being wrapped around her granddaughter, whose m
other had tragically died in a fire caused when she had fallen asleep on a couch with a lighted cigarette. Salka’s house was across the road from the rear of the hotel. I recall Garbo and the writer Irwin Shaw (who lived in Klosters for part of the year) being at Salka’s the first afternoon of my arrival. Garbo was very relaxed around Salka, dressed in a heavy sweater and wool pants. Salka’s secretary, Marian, was also present. The two young girls had gone off into another part of the house.
A French couple were also visitors, as was Irwin who was speaking to them in their language but was receiving puzzled looks. “Speak to them in English, Irwin,” Salka demanded. “No one can understand your French!”
Garbo left Klosters the day before I was to depart. “Something’s troubling you,” Salka told me on the telephone. “Come for lunch.”
Marian took charge of the girls and we lunched alone. I took Salka into my confidence about my current condition and that I was considering going to an abortionist.
“That is a very personal decision,” she said, pausing for a moment. “Tell me, are you a member of any organized religion?”
“No. I don’t believe in them.”
“How do you feel about this man? Do you love him?” she asked feelingly.
I thought carefully about it. “Not deeply.” I remembered Sy saying one night after we had spent the evening with the Adlers, “We have much more together than they have.” I knew that we did not but kept silent. “I would never marry him and I cannot even contemplate the idea of having a child at this time in my life,” I finally replied.
“Well, darling, you seem to have made up your mind.”
“Yes . . . yes, I have. There is one thing, however.” She leaned in closer and took my hand. Her deep-set eyes were fixed on me. I could see how beautiful she must once have been, those amazing eyes, the fine-carved bones of her face. One could not help but note the grace with which she used her hands. “I’m not going to tell him either that I am pregnant or that I plan to have an abortion,” I finished.
“Do you think he would stop you if he knew? Or maybe wish to do—the right thing?”
“No. Neither. I just want the relationship to be cut clean. Nothing left open for further discussion. Do you think that’s wrong?”
“Who can say what is wrong or right in such cases? A woman’s body is her own to do with what she chooses. If you were married it would be another matter—perhaps. Or, perhaps not. I think, perhaps not. It is not my business, of course, but how are you going to pay for this?”
“I have the money. I’ve been working steadily for the last few months. I was saving it for a trip back to the States to see my mother. But this seems more pressing.”
“You must promise me—no back-alley operation?”
“No, no. A good doctor. Not ethical—but reliable and used by the studios.”
“Ummm. I know the kind. We had one like him at MGM. Married to Louella Parsons, I believe.”
When Cathy and I were leaving, Salka gave me a fond hug. “You’ll call?”
“I promise.”
Within a week after my return from Klosters, all the arrangements had been made. Since the doctor’s name was not a secret in the industry, I called and made an appointment, citing another minor ailment, and went to see him.
His office was on Harley Street where most of the private practices (those not a part of National Health) were located. There remained numberless British citizens of the upper brackets who could afford private care and desired to do so. It could have been a class issue. But I had so far found the National Health excellent and could not have hoped in my past experiences for better care. National Health, however, did not pay for abortions, nor could a doctor in the scheme perform one unless the mother’s life was in critical danger. I was perfectly healthy.
When I arrived at the doctor’s suite in an elegant Harley Street building, I was led into a private anteroom to wait. The magazines in the rack left to amuse patients while they waited were Majesty, and others to do with horses, cricket, and golf. I did not have to fill time for I was almost immediately ushered into the doctor’s private—and extremely well-furnished—office. The doctor was of tolerable good looks, extremely fit for a man of his age (I assumed he was in his midfifties) and possessing considerable charm. His hair (dyed dark) had begun to thin and so he combed it forward, much as Raymond did. He wore a well-tailored, expensive business suit and sapphire links on the French cuffs of what appeared to be an expensive Sulka shirt.
The story I had heard about him was that not being from an affluent family, he had been performing abortions while attending medical school to help with his tuition and lifestyle. He had a definite pride in what he did, believing himself to be something of a humanitarian as well as an expert. Someone high up in the Rank Organisation had found need for his discreet services, and so his career had taken wing. He also performed such services as procuring pills for addicted patients—performers, sports figures, and scions of famous or titled families. A recurring rumor was that he supplied the former Duke of Kent (King George VI’s youngest brother who died in an air crash in 1942) with drugs for his habit.
He verified that I was seven weeks pregnant, asked a few questions about my past health history, and then in a faintly condescending manner added, “I am in private practice, you know. There will be a fee. Is the gentleman . . .”
I interrupted. “I will be responsible for the cost. How much will it be?”
“Five hundred pounds. Cash,” he said, very straight and clear. “Before . . .”
“I understand.”
“Fine. Fine.” He looked through an appointment book on his desk and suggested a date and time for the following week. I asked him questions on how long the medical procedure would take, what were the possible complications, and what should I do before and after.
“You will be able to go home directly after. But you should have someone of a discreet nature to accompany you. If you change your mind, please ring and simply state that you have to cancel an appointment.” He walked me to the door and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Not to worry. You’re in good hands now,” a declaration that did not entirely reassure me.
I took my time to decide who I could ask to accompany me. Not Sidney, nor Kit, nor Doris, each of whom might try to dissuade me. No one from the expat colony, either, for news was shuttled between them with amazing speed. And certainly not Raymond, who was the only Englishman I knew whom I would not turn to in an emergency. I finally decided on Stanley Mann, an American film writer who had come over with the new wave of Americans and Canadians. He was currently working with Sidney on a screenplay (The Mark) on which Raymond was one of the producers. We had met socially and rather hit it off. Stanley was a capable and sympathetic person. Very sensible. I called and asked if he could meet me for lunch at a Chinese restaurant on Kensington High Street. Over a Mongolian hot pot we discussed the situation—or rather, I talked and he listened.
“This is rather new to me,” he said, hedging.
“I would understand if you don’t feel you can do it.”
“And the guy? Where is he in all this?”
“It’s over and he doesn’t know.”
“Have you told Sidney?”
“No. I’ve told only one friend and she lives in Switzerland.”
“What do I do if things—well—if you need . . .”
“I guess at that point you could call the Adlers.”
He agreed to take me, but I could see he was not pleased with the idea.
The procedure took no more than a half hour. I rested for a while and then Stanley drove me home. The whole thing had transpired between the time the children had left for school and the time that they returned.
On a Saturday afternoon about two weeks after the abortion, Cathy and I had gone food shopping at Harrods as I was planning to cook Sunday lunch for some friends. The clouds were gray, rain constant by the time we came out loaded with packages. There were no taxis at the taxi rank. We sto
od under the canopy waiting for the doorman who was trying to hail one for someone ahead of us in the queue. Suddenly I sighted a free taxi coming toward Brompton Road (where we were) from a side street. Switching to a “New York mentality,” I grabbed Cathy’s hand and took off at a run for the cab, hoping to reach it before the doorman saw it. The street was slick with rainwater. I made it just past the curb, let go of Cathy’s hand, and went flying through the air having totally lost my footing. I landed badly, my right leg (my weak one) underneath me. The pain set in immediately. The doorman came running, cars to a screeching halt, whistles blew, and a crowd was gathering. Cathy leaned in close to me.
“Mommy,” she said softly, “pull down your skirt.”
That day I had decided to wear a dress (I was going to Harrods, after all, and must look proper), and in the fall my coat had flown open and my skirt beneath it risen to my hips, revealing my undergarments. What could I do but laugh? At least two things were certain. I had been raised as a genteel young lady and heeded my mother’s oft-said advice, “Always wear a clean pair of panties when venturing out.”
An ambulance was quick to the scene. I was taken to St. George’s Hospital, about five minutes or less away. My leg was broken badly in two places. After a week in the hospital (the children had stayed with the Adlers) with my leg in a cast from groin to toe, I was brought home in a wheelchair by ambulance. Two burly paramedics got me into the lobby of our building and then were confronted by that narrow, boxlike lift. There was no way that even one of the men could ride up with me. They tried fitting me and the wheelchair in, the idea being that I would ride up alone and they would walk up the four flights of stairs and take me out when I arrived at the top. However, I could not bend my leg because of the cast and had to extend it straight out. The door would not close. No way to go but for the men to carry me up the four flights. They decided it would be a lighter load if I was out of the wheelchair and so up the three of us went with Michael heading the progression by walking backward and holding up my leg.
