Thirteen

The Berliner Ensemble, founded in 1948 by Bertolt Brecht, was already world famous. The only disadvantage to working with the Berliner Ensemble was that they practised their art in East Berlin, which was still accessible at this time but not exactly a holiday resort.

Already the dross of communism was beginning to build up in East Berlin. In the West everybody was struggling to get back to some sort of normality. Now that the street battalions had gone and the professionals had moved in, the city was beginning to look better by the day. In the East they seemed to be working to a different tune and though the work battalions were still cleaning bricks and filling in pot-holes with rubble they appeared to work without joy or enthusiasm.

In the East were also Russian soldiers. It was the height of jingoistic communism, with an entrenched belief among the comrades that before long the mighty Soviet would rule the world. They were very mindful of what the Nazis had done to their country and the terrible death toll they had meted out. Individually the soldiers were quite sweet: they had a strong sense of home and duty, and didn’t need a lot of encouragement to whip out a photograph or tell you about the folks they had left behind. Danger came when they were together. As helpful and understanding as they could be when they were solo, en masse you soon learned to walk another street.

Predictably, Matka wasn’t keen on my venturing through Checkpoint Charlie. But I didn’t listen. I reasoned that a lot of the folk I had met in the partisan camp had claimed to be Communists, including Kuragin – and everybody loved him. And after all, it was the exact opposite of fascism.

I thought long and hard about the best way to present myself at the theatre. Should I write first and beg for an audition? Or should I just turn up and astonish them with my virtuosity? The downside to writing was that I would have to list my qualifications for the job and say what acting I had done before. Turned down by every other theatre and getting a laugh out of Chekhov didn’t seem to be the right sort of recommendation somehow. So I decided just to turn up and let my natural charm and overwhelming talent speak for me. I wouldn’t give them the Chekhov. It was time to box clever. I would wing it and claim my piece was by some obscure Polish writer, so nobody could bang on about ‘misinterpretation’.

I arrived outside the theatre, walked past it and reconsidered. Now I was there, just the sight of the dirty old place was enough to get my stomach doing bungee jumps and my legs feeling like perished elastic. I walked back and looked through the door. Gloom. The only colour was provided by inspirational tracts on theatre nailed up by the local Communist party.

I walked about fifty yards up the road, screwed up my courage and stalked back, swinging through the entrance before I had a chance to change my mind. A man stood in the lobby. I hadn’t counted on anyone being there and was immediately overwhelmed by fearful confusion. I made out I had just dropped in to pick up a pamphlet but when the man sniffed and turned to go into the theatre, I summoned all my courage and gave a cough that caught his attention. He smiled encouragingly.

‘I’m here to see Frau Weigel,’ I gasped. The man asked if I had an appointment and I gurgled something in reply, giving a sickly smile. He looked at me for a moment or two, told me to hang on while he found out if she was in and pushed through the door. He came back just as my nerve was failing me and I was about to leg it up the road.

Frau Weigel would see me.

She seemed incredibly small but came towards me with quick, large steps. She reminded me of my mother, except that Matka was twice as tall. Although she seemed hard as nails she was, in fact, soft and direct: no nonsense. It was her voice that captivated me: she sounded like Marlene Dietrich. And of course she was one of the best actresses on stage at the time. I tried desperately not to be intimidated but came as near to fainting without actually flopping out as it is possible to get. So far so good. She was wonderful and very gruff. She asked what I wanted. I had pulled myself together now and worked up a sort of hysteria. This was my big chance. If I muffed it my entire life would be 9 to 5 in a swivel chair. I said I wanted in.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘You don’t lack chutzpah.’

I took it as a compliment and asked if I could show her what I could do.

She waved her cigarette around and stopped me. ‘You’re an actress?’ she asked. Again I was non-committal. ‘And I thought you were after the job making Muckefuck for the cast.’

The small misunderstanding about making ersatz coffee was soon dealt with and I was asked to pop up on stage and do my bit. I did a piece which I pompously called ‘Home from the War’ by Witkiewicz.

Of course, she realised I was having her on. She knew every tiny bit of Witkiewicz and ‘Home from the War’ was not one of his works. Why hadn’t I invented some name? I kicked myself.

To my surprise and relief, Frau Weigel let me go on and even told Otto, the lighting man, to put me in a spotlight. I played a woman whose husband comes home from the war to find his wife taking part in the oldest profession to save the life of her child. She is sorry and he is sorry, and the whole thing was a travesty. But Helene didn’t roll in the aisle, laughing uncontrollably. Tickled by my brazen nerve, she asked me if I could do anything else. I told her I could do Chekhov but that I preferred not to as I didn’t like the German translations, which made his plays into high drama.

‘What do you think the plays are?’ she asked in an amused tone.

‘I think Chekhov is very funny, bringing out the funny side of the people he writes about,’ I parroted.

She lit another fag and told me to get on and do ‘my’ Chekhov.

‘My’ Chekhov must have coincided with ‘her’ Chekhov because she let me stay. I was a member of the Ensemble.

My first job was to brew Muckefuck. It wasn’t what I had in mind but eventually I would get some walk-ons and even the occasional line. What did I care? I had made it. Now I could listen and learn, and was at last in the setting where my amazing talent could blossom. I might be the tea-girl today but that would only make it so much more poignant when they hung the traditional gold star on the dressing-room door.

I lived with my Auntie Fidi, my father’s sister-in-law, in her flat on Lenin Allee. Once a week I would borrow a bike from one of the carpenters and visit my mother. They were painful little interludes but I felt under an obligation. The pain was due not just to the continuous attempt to convince Mama that I wasn’t descending into a life of debauchery but to the checkpoint. Every time I went through it I was searched by the Volkspolizistinnen. They were much worse than the Vopos, their male counterparts. The women invariably made me strip naked. It was very frightening and reminded me of the degradations of Stutthof. There was no clear definition of what you could and couldn’t take through the checkpoint. One day coffee would be all right if you took only a small amount and promised, before Stalin, that you didn’t intend to sell it. Then the next day you might be stopped by a woman who had decided that coffee was an effete capitalist drink that should be confiscated. Clothes were another chancy item. Matka was always terribly aware of the favour my aunt was doing me and insisted I took her presents, very often clothes. Invariably, guards would snatch them away and throw them on to a heap in the corner. Sometimes they would even take those I was wearing if they thought I had too much on. At first I tried to protest but I soon learned that the more you did so, the more you got stopped and the longer the search took.

The frustrations of the checkpoint, Mama’s constant harping about living away and the deteriorating quality of life in the East began to irritate me and I considered giving up my new job. I soon changed my mind, however, when one of the actresses decided that she had had enough and was going to escape to the West. With one female less I reckoned I might be called up for a proper part in the next production . . .

Perhaps the actress had known something because, not long after she returned to the West, the borders were closed and the Berlin wall rose up. I could no longer go home to see my mother even once a week.

My mother was frantic. I played it cool and assured her that, as a theatrical star, I was safe from any interference from the East German authorities. That didn’t exactly reassure her but I didn’t take a lot of notice. Whatever the consequences, I wasn’t going to give up my big chance in the world’s best theatre.

Emboldened by my newly acquired status as an Ensemble player, however minor, I relaxed and was soon giving anyone who would listen the benefit of my experience. Otto, the lighting man, was a particular fan. He was old – at least forty – and though he would sometimes come on to me, I found him quite easy to control and felt safe with him. With his uncritical attention I soon worked up a spiel that included not only thoughts on acting, directing, scenery and publicity, but a more dangerous monologue about the powers that controlled the land. My theme ran along the lines that the East German government consisted of a load of morons who had no artistic appreciation. Political schooling did not moderate my views. Every week a commissar gave us a little lecture on how lucky we were to be looked after by our big brothers of the Volksrepublik. We were all supposed to sit and nod dutifully, and then wish the comrade farewell and get on with our work for another week. Everybody understood it was just a duty call. Except me. I began to rant on about the amount of time wasted on political schooling. The teachers were a bunch of cretins anyway. It would be much better if we were just left alone. No one argued with me. No one agreed with me. They were too smart. The nearest I ever got to encouragement was from Otto and he was really only interested in running his hands over my developing body.

Inevitably, I went a criticism too far and the incumbent stool-pigeon told the Cultural Officer, who told the Volkspolizei and before I knew what was happening I was marched off to the local Vopo HQ. I wasn’t even thought worthy of a ride in the back of one of their big black limos. At the station I was put through the routine: first I was left sitting by myself for hours, then questioned by a bored woman about my family, friends, where I lived, what I thought about the Americans. By this time I was thoroughly worried and wished Matka were with me. She was good at fielding these sorts of questions. With each answer I felt I was digging a hole for myself. I was made to wait another eternity and then was interviewed by a man in uniform. He asked the same questions but with a lot more menace. There was more sitting in a little dark room and another interview, this time with a suit, who rapped out his questions without waiting to hear what I had to say. He seemed to be set on proving I was a pure anti-red, Soviet-hating capitalist. I was soon terrified, convinced that he had already armed a firing squad.

I was again removed to a cell, where I huddled in fear until a civilian woman came in and to my utter surprise told me I could go. At the front desk I found the reason for my release: Helene Weigel had been in to bat. She had convinced the police that I was some sort of imbecile with a suicide fixation and they had agreed to release me into her custody. She left me in no doubt that if I didn’t shape up I would be out of the Ensemble. I grovelled and promised eternal fealty, and that my mouth would be as mute as marble. Helene showed she had a sense of humour by giving me the part of the mute Kattrin in Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage.