by Kirk Douglas
When the festival ended, Kirk and I left for Italy. I was uneasy about being on Pier’s home territory, but she was making a film in South America.
KIRK:
Carlo Ponti invited us to his villa in the hills above Amalfi before the start of production. We had a wonderful, romantic holiday in an ancient tower that served as their guest quarters. During that magical week, Anne and I would set off in a little rowboat. She would row; I would sing her Italian love songs. We explored Amalfi and Positano and then went to Capri.
Anne said to me, “We are so happy with each other.”
“But don’t forget I’m going to marry Pier,” I reminded her gently.
Ulysses started shooting on May 18, 1953, in the little fishing village of Porto Ercole on the Adriatic. The replica of Ulysses’s ship was ten miles away; I swam part of it alongside the launch where Anne would sit reading a book. Sometimes I would water-ski for a mile or two.
Then we moved to Rome to continue filming at Cinecittà Studios, which is where Pier surprised me with a visit to the set one day. We resumed our romance, and Anne moved into a hotel.
I cannot believe how insensitive I was. I asked Anne to come to Bulgari and help me choose an engagement ring for Pier. She did it without a murmur, but she must have been seething inside.
ANNE:
This was a particularly painful period for me. I was planning to visit my father after filming on Ulysses was complete. I wanted Kirk to meet him. Papa was impressed that Kirk loved me. He liked his films and his success. We were in Rome when Inge called to say our father was in the hospital with angina. I spoke with his doctor, who assured me he would be fine. He died the next day.
My father had returned to Hannover after the war. Inge was there as well with her new husband. Our former home had been destroyed by Allied bombs, so Papa designed a new residence on the site with three separate flats. He lived on the main level in the largest of them. There was a tenant above, and on the lowest floor he had made a small apartment for his daughter Merle. He never married again, but had a housekeeper who was his mistress. She took everything of value except my mother’s Steinway when he died.
Finding out about our half sister was a great shock to both Inge and me. My father had never even hinted of her existence. She didn’t know about us either, which was also strange. Merle’s mother was Trude, who remarried soon after she left our father.
I met this new sister for the first time when Inge brought her to Paris. We had an instant connection. I don’t know if my father was aware of our meeting. Even so, he would never have mentioned it to his daughters. His secrets were a deeply ingrained part of his nature.
One of the things I love most about Kirk is his inability to keep secrets. He once asked me, “Honey, how would you like a surprise party for your birthday?” Kirk never tried to hide his dalliances from me. He told me about them himself because I wanted to hear it from him directly, not via an idle piece of gossip.
Let me explain my attitude concerning this. As a European, I understood it was unrealistic to expect total fidelity in a marriage. In Paris I had known General de Gaulle’s driver, who was also his mistress, and many more like her. In more recent times, François Mitterrand’s mistress and their children came to his funeral at the invitation of his wife. Only the Americans found it outrageous. Kirk secured my permission before including stories of his trysts in his 1988 autobiography, The Ragman’s Son. I’m positive his candor helped make the book a major bestseller.
In Italy in 1953, he never hid his feelings about Pier, misplaced as I thought they were. She was the fantasy woman of his dreams, innocent and malleable and adorably provocative. I certainly couldn’t compete on that level. But I hoped he would finally see her as the manipulative child-woman she was. With the Bulgari ring in his pocket, Kirk flew to London to propose to Pier on her twenty-first birthday. She said yes. Then he came back to work. At the end of the picture, Kirk hosted a party for the cast and crew, which I had to organize. He acted as if we were still together, and against my better nature, I wanted to believe it.
We took a trip to Brussels before going back to Paris. Kirk wanted to see where I had lived. Albert had returned there to work, and we arranged a dinner with him and his girlfriend. That day I toured the city with Kirk, and he had heartily consumed a large lunch of seafood in rich sauces. By evening he felt ill, and I went to dinner alone. When I returned, Kirk reproached me: “I hope you had a nice time. While you were gone, I had a heart attack. The doctor advised me to see a specialist near Baden-Baden immediately, but we have to take the train. Flying might be fatal for me.”
I gently suggested that, given what he’d consumed at lunch, it might just be indigestion. However, Kirk was so convinced of the doctor’s diagnosis that I became alarmed.
The German specialist kept Kirk in his examining room for a long time. When he emerged, he sheepishly admitted, “The doctor said he’s never seen a healthier specimen in his life. He asked what I ate yesterday. Then he told me I had indigestion.”
I smiled, and my healthy specimen and I went out to walk around the town. We passed a kiosk with the latest issue of Paris-Match on display. Pier Angeli was on the cover. Kirk looked at it. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Anne, I guess I’m still in love with her.”
KIRK:
While I was in Rome, my agent, Ray Stark, and his wife, Fran, had come to visit; so did my lawyer and business manager, Sam Norton, with his wife, Bea. Sam told me I was now officially a millionaire. All of the money he had invested for me in oil wells and other properties had made me rich.
Ray had worked things out with Walt Disney for me to star in his first live-action movie—20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. We would film in the Bahamas, Jamaica, and Mexico before going back to the studio in Los Angeles. This was great. I could finish my eighteen months abroad and get my tax breaks before going home to the small house with a pool Sam had bought for me, using the power of attorney I had given him. Fran Stark, a talented interior designer, was furnishing it for me.
I flew back to the States for a few days to spend Christmas in New York with Michael and Joel. I also went to see my father, who was seriously ill in an Albany hospital. He looked frail and frightened.
I was back in Paris for New Year’s Eve. I was taking Pier to La Tour d’Argent, just the two of us—no Mama! Over dinner, knowing there were no obstacles to a night of passion, I fell out of love with her. I was bored with the conversation. Also, there was no chemistry between us when we kissed as the clock struck midnight. I broke off our engagement. She returned my ring. I couldn’t wait to tell Anne.
ANNE:
I was nursing my broken heart at a friend’s lovely hotel in the hills above St. Paul de Vence in the south of France. I left strict orders with my maid in Paris not to let anyone know where I had gone. I tried my best to act cheerful, but I was miserable.
Kirk phoned my apartment after leaving Pier at her hotel, but my maid wouldn’t tell him where I was. He went to my flat on rue Lord Byron, rang the doorbell, and broke her down easily. The charm and movie-star looks worked every time. He called the hotel. “It’s Kirk on the phone,” my friend said. “He told me to tell you he just had dinner with Pier Angeli and they broke up and she gave the ring back and it’s finished. You must talk to him.”
I told him, “Don’t do this to me again. I don’t want to be hurt anymore.” But like my maid, I succumbed. I took the afternoon train back to Paris—back to my love and the possibility of more heartbreak.
On their Klosters “honeymoon”
We went to Switzerland to ski at Klosters, where our friends Tola Litvak, Irwin Shaw, and Robert Capa were already enjoying the slopes. It was like a honeymoon, just perfect. Kirk had never skied before. But, like everything else, he became very good very quickly. Two weeks turned into four, and I expected 1954 to be a good year.
On our return to Paris, I drove Kirk to the airport. I was still taking care of his business affairs in Paris, and had organized the
shipping of his trunk and his new car. He told me he would write, but made no promises of anything more. As I kissed him good-bye at the curb, one of Air France’s agents came toward us.
“Mr. Douglas, Pier Angeli is waiting for you in the lobby,” she said. I drove off, wondering if I had become just another of those women who foolishly fell in love with an American movie star.
CHAPTER THREE
1954: Our Romance Goes Transatlantic
KIRK:
After spending so much time together in France and Italy, our lives were now playing out on separate continents. By March 1954, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea had finished shooting in the Bahamas and had moved on to Jamaica. I was at the Round Hill Hotel in Montego Bay when I received word from my sister that my father was dying.
I had a dilemma; Anne was the only one I could tell. Obviously, the letter would arrive in France well after my decision, but Anne had been my sounding board for a long time. I just felt better writing to her.
My darling Anne—
I certainly wish you were here with me now. Yesterday I received word that my father is dying. Since then I have sent cables and tried to reach them by phone, but can’t reach them. I don’t know what I should do. You see, I cannot—if for no other reason but for my children—take a chance on losing out on the 18 month period. Maybe I could get there for a day and come right back, but I don’t know what I would accomplish. I have a reservation on a plane for this afternoon and I will have to decide within the next few hours.
What a futile feeling it is. I just know this must be the end for him, because, at last word, he was in an oxygen tent with pneumonia.
I just talked to my sister. My father is now feeling better. God! What a constitution he must have! I feel like I’ve been through a wringer.
Please write to me—Love, Kirk
ANNE:
In today’s world of instant communication, only people of a certain age remember the frustrations of an air-mail correspondence. Occasionally, Kirk would cable, and sometimes he would be able to get through to me by phone; but it wasn’t ideal to shout intimacies over a line that might have static or an operator listening in.
I wrote more regularly than Kirk at first, but he then began to share more and more of his thoughts with me. He also loved the idea of writing in French, with a little German thrown in now and again to impress me. I was always urging him to write longer letters.
Kirk had a pet name for me—Stolz, the German word for “stubborn.” He also used “stolzig” (being stubborn) for the way I got when I tried to cover up my feelings of insecurity. Here’s a letter he wrote before leaving Jamaica.
Dear Hannelore,
Tomorrow morning I leave for Havana, Cuba, then to the Yucatán, then to Mexico City and on March 16th I leave for California.
Life here in Jamaica is rather dull. The country is beautiful—a little too tropical for me, and the people are uninteresting. Every morning I get up at 6 to drive about two hours over terrible roads to location. And after work—the drive back!
The director is a wonderful guy and Peter Lorre is a lot of fun. I’m including a snap that someone took of both of us.
You will soon be leaving for the south of France. Do your job, but don’t knock yourself out! Have some fun (not too much!)
Yesterday I felt terrible, thought I was getting malaria and I needed you to tell me I only had a cold.
I miss you very much, Stolz, and I want to arrange to see you soon. Let’s see what happens when I get to California. I’ll write to you from Cuba.
Lots of love, Kirk
Our letters crossed. I had posted mine on March 4, 1954.
Tu t’amuses mon chéri? [Are you having fun, my darling?]
Here is some recent news from Klosters. Mr. Bentley-Dauros reported them from his last skiing weekend. By the way, he is really trying very hard to complicate his life by wooing me seriously.
Tola and Soph have spent a couple of days. Irwin [Shaw] finally sprained his ankle skiing. The weather is not too good, the place is jammed—40–60 minutes to catch a beer. Madame Suler is in love with you and so is everybody in Klosters—and ich auch [me too]!
I am leaving Friday the 19th for Cannes and the Festival. The trip and my whole stay will be distressing. Everything is still so full of memories. My Darling, every moment we spent together is still so very much alive.
I am awfully lonely without you. I know that a separation always embellishes the feelings and I also know that visiting is a perfect and dangerous way to create illusions and distortion. For the moment I am still in the world of reality and I wish it would remain this way!
I am sending the records to Mrs. Ponti with a little note saying that you have asked me to do so before your departure.
Darling, write to me once without being afraid of anything! Speak to me openly. I did it in my previous letters but I am worried I am stolzig again. You can help me by talking to me and don’t think you commit yourself or you hurt me.
Please, I need it. A.
Anne and Sam Norton in Rome, 1953
KIRK:
After Jamaica, we moved on to Mexico City and the Yucatán, where my friend Willie Schorr and I enjoyed exploring the Mayan ruins. Then I took him to Acapulco for a long weekend. I wrote Anne this letter from the great impresario Mike Todd’s house. He was living with Evelyn Keyes who was, incidentally, one of my ex-flames and an ex-wife of John Huston.
Darling—
I am now in Acapulco staying at a most beautiful little house as the guest of guess who??—Mike Todd and Evelyn Keyes who both send their very best.
Willie is with me. We came down here, stayed at a hotel the first night and then bumped into Mike and Evelyn.
How I wish you were here. The bed next to mine is empty—really and I wish you were in it. Very often I miss you terribly but I hesitate to write about it in my letters for many reasons.
I go back to Mexico City on Tuesday and on Wednesday, the 17th, I leave for California. I hope there will be a letter waiting for me there.
All in all the trip from Jamaica to here was very interesting. Did I tell you about your friend Lobo in Cuba?
There are so many things that I say to you in my reveries that I don’t know whether or not I have written it to you.
I saw him once and he was most charming. And how well he spoke of you. There were a group of people there and he talked about you as if you were a mixture of Helen of Troy, Josephine, Cleopatra and the Virgin Mary! Frankly, I have never thought of you as any kind of virgin! He has a very charming house, filled with masterpieces.
I went water skiing yesterday and did very well on two skis, but didn’t do very well on one. I’ll try again today. The weather is perfect here and the place is very charming. I keep thinking I’m in Italy.
I continued my letter in French:
When I get back, I will write to you always in French. Also, I hope that I will begin again to study with a teacher. Sam told me he has hired a Swiss houseman for me who speaks French and German also. If it’s true I will speak French with him.
This evening Mike is giving a grand party here with an orchestra. I will miss you very much, I assure you. I am going to lie down and get up late in the morning.
I will write you when I arrive in California. Tell me everything you are doing and all that is going on in Cannes during the Festival.
Is my film Act of Love showing in Cannes? And the others? Are you sure you can understand me when I write in French?
Behave yourself, my darling, and write to me soon.
I love you. K.
ANNE:
I was given the letter when I checked into the Carlton, along with a cable Kirk sent from his new house at 1609 San Ysidro in Beverly Hills. I was glad to hear about his visit with my good friend Julio Lobo, one of Cuba’s tobacco barons. I had met Julio when I was in New York on behalf of Paris Cavalcade of Fashion, and we subsequently saw each other in Paris on various occasions.
I answered Kirk i
mmediately:
Mon Amour,
Arriving here this morning, I found your long letter from Acapulco and your cable from San Ysidro! I congratulate you on your French.
I am so anxious to know what you think about your house. Please write quickly! I am so sad and lonely here without you. I took that sketch of you with me and to prevent me from getting “stolzig,” I nailed you in the frame! If you could only hear how I talk to you each night before I cuddle myself in your arms.
Darling, you would have to be proud. Never have you been loved so much and so exclusively. If I don’t see you soon I am getting nuts!—
I am delighted you saw Lobo. What a crazy idea taking me for a virgin! I might have to do something about this. It will ruin my reputation!!—
I got your cable from Mexico. By the way, did you get my letters from Jamaica and my cable for our “anniversary”?
How is your Swiss manservant? I hope by now your new car and trunk have arrived.
Sweetheart, write to me, call me, come over—do anything. I want to be close to you. I want to be loved and loved—and loved again and again! This is what Doctor Kinsey would call: “A dangerous case of starvation”!
Stolz
I wrote again a few days later:
My darling—
Tonight you have to excuse me. I am a bit drunk. A little bit of smoked eel and a tiny bit of vodka did it.
Welcome home Sweetheart!! I can just see you sitting in that comfortable armchair in front of the fireplace and reading a letter from that little Parisian girl you used to know!
