STEP RIGHT UP!…
I’m Gonna Scare The Pants Off America
By William Castle
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2010 by William Castle
Original Copyright 1976 William Castle All Rights Reserved.
Photographs and additional material Copyright 2010 William Castle All Rights Reserved.
Special Copyright Notice
The text and photographs of this book is an eBook file intended for one reader only. It may be used by that reader on computers and devices that she or he owns and uses. It may not be transmitted in whole or in part to others except as stated above. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedicated To My Three Girls
Ellen, Georgie and Terry
And
The thousands of kids whom I
Have scared the daylights out of,
Who now have kids that I hope
I can continue to scare the daylights out of.
Contents
Part I—Adventures of the Spider Boy
Chapter I—The Spider Boy
Chapter II—Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
Chapter III—The Girl Who Said No to Hitler
Chapter IV—The Big Time
Chapter V—Get Your Ass in Here!
Chapter VI—The Dream Factory
Chapter VII—God, the Stars, and the Flea
Chapter VIII—My Uncle Samuel
Chapter IX—It's Bigger Than I Thought
Chapter X—The Man in the Black Derby Hat
Chapter XI—The Chance of a Lifetime
Chapter XII—Three Kings and an Ace
Chapter XIII—Two Can Be Buried as Cheaply as One
Chapter XIV—Mutiny on the Zaca
Chapter XV—The Twin Syndrome
Chapter XVI—The Little Monster
Chapter XVII—Do Indians Wear Bathing Caps?
Part II—Horrors!
Chapter XVIII—Don't Drop Dead
Chapter XIX—The Skeleton Factory
Chapter XX—Scream for Your Life
Chapter XXI—Cowards' Corner
Chapter XXII—A Sob, a Scream…a Bloody Ax!
Chapter XXIII—Girls of the World
Part III—Rosemary: A Trilogy
Chapter XXIV—Heaven
Chapter XXV—Purgatory
Chapter XXVI—Hell
Part IV—And Now, Ladies and Gentlemen…
Chapter XXVII—Look, Ma, He's Talking!
Chapter XXVIII—Nobody Loves a Cockroach
Part V—Epilogue
Part I—Adventures of The Spider Boy
A CLOCK was projected on the screen, its single large hand stationary on zero. As my voice came over the sound track, the hand began to move, ticking off the seconds—5…10…15…20…
"Ladies and gentlemen—when the clock reaches sixty seconds, you will be insured by Lloyds of London for one thousand dollars against death by fright. Lloyds of London sincerely hopes none of you will collect. But just in case, isn't it comforting to know that your loved ones are protected. You are now insured against death by fright!"
It has always amazed and baffled me that audiences will wait patiently in line and pay money to have the wits scared out of them. I once took a poll, but the answers were varied and inconsistent: "I just like to be frightened." "I want to scream." "It gives me a thrill." "I want to hang on to my boyfriend." I think the real answer lies deep within each one of us, and starts with our childhood fears. Sitting in a darkened theatre, watching a horror film, we suspend disbelief, confident that we're not screaming for our own lives. The nightmare is happening to somebody else. Alfred Hitchcock, the master, likened the suspense and horror picture to a wild ride on a roller coaster—excitement, screams, thrills, without any real danger.
I was first infected with that kind of fear when I was about six. My father had taken me to my first play, a horror piece called The Monster. DeWolf Hopper played the madman. Sitting in the darkened theatre, I clutched my father's hand in abject terror, finally embarrassing the hell out of him by wetting myself during the second act. In consternation, he pulled me up the aisle toward the men's room, but it was too late.
As kaleidoscopic bits of my childhood slowly come into focus, I remember I was frightened most of the time, but never knew why. I was clumsy, awkward, withdrawn and unable to make friends. When I was nine years old my parents decided to send me to camp.
"Too much 'mother,' " my father declared. I resisted, but off I went, bag and baggage, to Camp Pontiac. My first night away from home was spent in tears of self-pity. Then, came rejection by my fellow campers when they found out I was too clumsy to take part in their daily sports: Unable to play baseball or basketball, even unable to swim, I was good for nothing.
My name was William Schloss, Jr., which didn't help matters any. They called me "Schlupps," "Slush," "Schlumps," and the more they kidded me, the more I hated myself.
One afternoon, the boy in bunk number two looked at me with utter disdain. "You're worth nothing, 'Slush,' absolutely nothing." The others loudly agreed. Silent, I sat on the edge of my bunk, feeling miserable. Then slowly I began to put my legs around my neck. I was double-jointed—my one claim to fame. When my feet touched behind my neck, I looked up in defiance. The boy in bunk number two gasped in awe. "Look, 'Schlupps' is a spider!"
Camp Pontiac held its annual circus on the baseball field.
"Ladies and gentlemen—step right up. Witness the marvelous feat of 'The Spider.' Unbelievable! Spine-chilling!…"
As the boy in the barker's outfit screamed, I waited for my cue. Dressed in black, I slowly walked out on the small stage, my heart pounding. Putting my legs around my neck, my toes touching, I felt a hush fall over the crowd, then thunderous applause. That night became an emotional breakthrough. I was no longer alone and frightened. I was special—who else in the entire camp could do what I did? I was the star performer—"The Spider Boy."
The following year, my mother suddenly died—pneumonia. I tried to cry at the funeral, but the tears wouldn't come. My mother was still alive; they were burying someone else, not my mother. A year later, my father died—a coronary. At the funeral, again I couldn't cry. I wanted to, but couldn't. I felt nothing—it wasn't really happening.
My only sister, Mildred, eleven years older, had just gotten married. I went to live with her and slept on the living-room couch. Frustrated and filled with resentment, I built a defensive covering, sealing it with a false bravado, allowing no one near me. Constantly, I went out of my way to prove myself to someone—anyone.
Starving for recognition and applause, one night, on a dare, I stripped to the waist and decided to swim the Hudson River. A group of gawkers gathered to watch. Bowing to the spectators, I plunged into the icy waters. The other side looked a long way off, but I was determined to make it. People on the shore screamed their excitement and applauded my stupidity.
Suddenly, a cramp gripped my stomach. As I tried to make it back to safety, the pain became more intense. The people on the shore became a blur as I started to go under the icy waters. As I fought for air, portions of my twelve-year life came back to me in slow motion. My brief span on earth was coming-to a close. At least I would be remembered for something and my name would be in the papers. Then total darkness enveloped me.
Blurred faces came into focus as I vomited river water onto the grass. A man was giving me artificial respiration. A passing river patrol boat had come to my rescue.
My next death-defying stunt was performed on the platform of the 116th Street subway. It was the rush hour and the station was jammed. Eagerly awaiting my great moment, I noticed the lights of the oncoming subway in the distance. The timing was perfect. Dramatically throwing up my hands, I proudly announced to the waiting passengers that "The Spider" was going to his death, and leaping off the platform, I awaited destruction. That really scared the shit out of the customers. The train roared nearer—nearer. Oh, Jesus, what had I gotten myself into! I closed my eyes and prayed that the goddamn train would stop in time. The motorman must have gotten my message.
Again and again I heard the circus barker's call, "Step right up," the applause, the attention. And each time, patiently, my sister and her husband would have to pick me up at the police station.
"Sometimes you act crazy, Bill," my brother-in-law, Allan, stated.
"Why can't you live a normal life just like any other boy?" my sister chimed in.
"Because I'm different, that's why," I defiantly stated.
The following day I made plans to run away from home— destination Hollywood. That was where I belonged, among the greats. Joe, the elevator man in the apartment house, volunteered to become my manager, and we decided we'd hitchhike to California when I could get some money.
Opening my sister's purse I emptied it of all the cash—$30. In my excitement I forgot to leave a note. Joe and I hitchhiked to Albany, where he suggested we spend the night at a "friend's" house.
Dreaming about Hollywood, I eagerly awoke the next morning. My wallet with the $30 was gone, and Joe had vanished into thin air. Bewildered, I found Joe's "friend" in the next room. "Where did Joe go?"
A shrug. "Who knows?" she said. "Maybe he went to Hollywood without you."
It took two days to hitchhike back to Manhattan. Afraid to go home, I decided to spend the night on a bench in the park in front of our apartment. Mildred found me sound asleep. "What's to become of you, Bill?"
I smiled sheepishly, "I'll think of something…I always do."
When I was thirteen years old, in 1927, I bought a balcony seat with $1.10 I had taken from my sister's purse, eager to see the play, Dracula, starring Bela Lugosi. Enchanted, I watched Count Dracula suck his victims' blood. Almost every night for the next two weeks, with $1.10 from my sister's purse, I sat in the balcony and listened to frightened audiences scream. Soon I was no longer watching the play; I had more fun watching the audiences.
One night after a performance I decided to go backstage and meet the great Lugosi. Opening a stage door, for the first time I entered the backstage world of make-believe. I boldly announced to the old man sitting there that I was a friend of Mr. Lugosi's and that he was expecting me. My bluff worked and the old man said Mr. Lugosi was in dressing room number one.
Hesitating outside his dressing room, I summoned courage to knock. A deep, accented voice bade me enter. For a fleeting moment I thought of escape, but it was too late—I was face to face with Count Dracula.
Luminous, piercing eyes looked into mine and I was suddenly struck dumb. "What can I do for you, young man?" the deep voice inquired. I started speak, but the words didn't come. Count Dracula smiled and waited patiently. I managed to stammer, "I've seen the play twelve times, sir…and I think you're wonderful."
"Please sit down, Mr…"
"Schloss," I said.
"Mr. Slush?" (That night I knew I had to change my name. "Castle" is the English equivalent.) "Would you like to watch the play from backstage tomorrow night?"
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
Bela Lugosi was a humble, gentle man, quite unlike the roles he portrayed. Every chance I had after that, I watched the special world of horror and fear from backstage. I knew then what I wanted to do with my life—I wanted to scare the pants off audiences.
Bela Lugosi was to make it all possible. When I was fifteen, I received a call from a producer who was getting ready to do a road company tour of Dracula. Mr. Lugosi had suggested me as the assistant stage manager Amazed that Lugosi had remembered me, I excitedly accepted and promptly dropped out of high school.
I suggested a few new promotional gimmicks for the play—a closed black coffin outside the theatre and Oriental incense to get the audiences in the mood. The stage manager agreed to try another of my ideas—Count Dracula would vanish on stage in a cloud of smoke, then suddenly reappear in the audience. Snarling at the frightened spectators, he would again vanish and appear back on stage. I began to learn firsthand the value of good publicity and showmanship.
Adolf Hitler was unwittingly to teach me the lesson again nine years later. Hitler was indirectly responsible for opening the doors of Hollywood for me.
Chapter II—Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
ADOLF HITLER, Orson Welles, and William Castle have one thing in common—we are Taureans. It was April 24, 1939, my twenty-fifth birthday. Hitler had invaded Czechoslovakia the month before. I felt we'd eventually get into it, but I wasn't about to worry on my birthday, especially since my girlfriend, Pat, a sculptress, was giving a birthday party for me at her Greenwich Village studio.
Riding the subway to the Village, I reflected on my good fortune. Earlier that day, I had received a check for $10,000, the first of three installments from my father's estate. Little did I know that the birthday party in my honor would lead to a summer of madness and that I was to meet two emissaries that evening—one from Adolf Hitler, the other from Orson Welles—and that fate already had plans for the $10,000 check in my wallet.
An old wizened panhandler sidled up to me as I walked toward Pat's studio. "Hey mister," a voice rasped from a toothless mouth. I paused. The harsh voice continued, "Got a nickel, a dime? I'm hungry. Please, mister, I gotta eat."
I remembered the many times I'd been broke and hungry, which was most of the previous nine years. The Depression years, when prosperity was supposed to be just around the corner; somehow, until now, I could never quite find the corner.
At first the jobs had come fast. After Dracula, I had been stage manager for An American Tragedy. Then I tried my hand at acting, in the lead role opposite Marjorie Main in Ebb Tide. That was followed by a lead in No More Frontier, and then a role in Chamberlin Brown's revival of Oliver Twist. When I was twenty, my sister, Mildred, her husband, Allan, and their young daughter, Joan, moved to Dallas. Although they wanted me to go with them and join my brother-in-law in the dress business, I opted for the theatre and stayed in New York. Then the jobs stopped coming. The Broadway theatre was having a tough time. Almost everyone was out of work, but we all continued to make our daily rounds of theatrical offices, hoping.
I spent five years job hunting, existing mainly off summers in the Borscht Belt where I got free room and board and a couple hundred dollars for being a social director. In the winter, I gained sustenance doing impersonations of Hollywood stars on cruises aboard the SS Statendam. All the time I seemed to be getting further and further away from my dream of scaring audiences.
"I'm hungry. Please, mister, I gotta eat." The old man was still there. With exactly $10 in cash—a five-dollar bill and five singles, I started counting out the singles, putting them into his outstretched hands. His eyes popped. He stared at me a moment with bloodshot eyes. Gripping my hand, he started to hug me, then planted a wet, slobbery kiss on my cheek. "God bless you, mister…You'll have good luck tonight." And with this good omen, I headed for the party.
Pat opened the door and threw her arms around my neck. All my theatre friends were there, and Pat introduced me to a thin red-headed actor with a large nose. Recognizing the name Everett Sloane, I realized he was one of Orson Welles's elite Mercury Players, a special group of young actors that had rocked Broadway for several seasons, their productions far-out and completely original. I had tried unsuccessfully on several occasions to meet Orson Welles. The usual. "Mr. Welles is very busy." "No, the play is all cast." "Why don't you send a resume of your work?" "I'm sorry, Mr. Welles is seeing no one."
Seizing the opportunity, I plied Everett with questions about Mr. Welles's whereabouts. I knew Welles tried out his plays at the Stony Creek Theatre in Connecticut during the summers, before bringing them to Broadway.
"Orson's leaving for Hollywood," Everett said. "He's going to start preparing Citizen Kane."
Excited, I inquired what was happening to Stony Creek.
"Orson's closing it," Everett informed me, and glancing at his watch, said he had to catch an early plane for the Coast the following day. He was playing a lead in Citizen Kane.
Some instinct made me yell as he was about to exit my life. "Everett, wait." Stopping at the front door, he hesitated. "Everett, before you go, I misplaced Orson's home telephone number. Do you happen to have it with you?"
Everett paused and looked at me quizzically, then shrugged. "I don't know if I should…oh, well, I'm leaving tomorrow anyway." Pulling out an address book, he gave me Welles's home phone number.
Committing it to memory, I headed for the telephone in the bedroom. It was now or never. After all, it was my birthday, and the panhandler said I would be lucky.
The deep melodious voice came on at the other end. "Hello, Mr. Welles, this is Mr. Castle. No, please, don't hang up. I'm a Broadway producer." (I had never produced a thing in my life.) Clutching my wallet, I almost screamed, "I've got lots of money! Please, Mr. Welles, let me take over Stony Creek. You won't be sorry." Either Orson Welles liked something about my voice or thought I was somebody else; in either event, he agreed to meet with me the following day.
Glancing up, heady with success, I noticed a lovely girl had entered the bedroom. She was looking for her purse. She had a fresh, wistful quality; not beautiful, but there was something lovely and youthful about her.
"You are Herr Castle," she said, with a slight German accent which made her all the more enchanting. "My name is Ellen Schwanneke."
I found out she was an actress, the star of Madchen in Uniform, a very successful German film. It had just been released in this country, and the New York critics had given her rave reviews.
She looked right into my eyes. Melting, I whispered, "Let's get out of here."
"We can't," she said. "It's your party, you must blow out the candles."
It was a warm night, and we walked around the Village while Ellen poured out her heart to me. She wanted to act but could find no work. She had run away from Hitler, hated what he was doing to her Germany.
"Miss Schwanneke, why don't you work for me? I'll star you in a play at Stony Creek, my new theatre, this summer. You'll be great. How about it?"
Smiling, she shook her head slowly. "You are so fast, Herr Castle. You do not know me, my work, what I feel. No, I am sorry."
At about five in the morning we were still walking.
"You Americans are so quick. Herr Castle, I must see the play first before I commit myself."
"Oh, the play." (I'd completely forgotten I didn't have a play.) Suddenly an idea hit me. She reminded me of the movie star Janet Gaynor. "Have you ever heard of a play called Seventh Heaven? It would be a perfect vehicle for you. Janet Gaynor did it as a silent film with Charles Farrell. I'll even get Farrell as your leading man. Fraulein, I can see it now in bright lights across the marquee—`Ellen Schwanneke and Charles Farrell starring in Seventh Heaven, A William Castle Production.' How about it?"
"Herr Castle, it sounds very nice, but I must have more time to think about it."
Shit, I wanted to make a deal right away. Maybe if we kept on walking, she'd say yes.
Chapter III—The Girl Who Said No to Hitler
THE following day I was in Orson Welles’s outer office. It was a madhouse of preparations for his leaving for Hollywood the following day to film Citizen Kane. I had been waiting an hour when a puff of smoke appeared, followed by "The Boy Wonder" himself. I rarely, if ever, have felt such incredible magnetism in a man. He grinned his boyish grin and, puffing cigar smoke, extended his hand. "Come on in."
We entered his spacious office and he waved me to a chair. Welles didn't sit, he paced. I started to sweat. Finally he spoke in his booming voice. "Why should I let you have Stony Creek?"
I stood up and began pacing with him.
"Do you smoke cigars?" he asked.
I didn't smoke cigars, but for the occasion, replied, "Of course." He handed me one of his famous Churchills, stopping long enough to light it for me. Choking, I puffed away. There was a silence while Welles stared out the window. For several moments I thought I was dismissed.
Then he abruptly turned and said, "You haven't answered my question."
Smiling, I quietly stated, "Because we're both Taurus." He laughed, and I plunged ahead. "I have money, but I know that isn't important to you. What is important is that I have talent. We're both the same age…I've been in show business since I was fifteen…" I rattled off my credits to him. "My love for the theatre is just as great as yours."
Welles turned and looked straight into my eyes. "You got a deal, Castle." Then he left the room abruptly.
Ten minutes later I was back on the street, the cigar still in my mouth and a lease for the Stony Creek Theatre in my pocket. Five hundred a week for ten weeks—5,000 bucks. I was now an impresario.
I got the rights to Seventh Heaven, but before the contract was signed, a call came from Actors Equity. The board had heard I had made a deal with Ellen Schwanneke and was taking over the Orson Welles playhouse that summer.
At the meeting, the board members were very polite but firm when they informed me I could not use Miss Schwanneke. My stomach did nip-ups and I must have gone white. Somebody handed me a cup of water. I complained of the heat but was really sick to my stomach. "Why can't I use Schwanneke? She's a great actress and should be allowed to work in America."
The great star Alfred Lunt, a board member, calmed me down. "Mr. Castle," he patiently explained, "no alien can play in summer stock; it's an Equity rule. You see, it takes away employment from American actors, and you wouldn't want to do that, would you, Mr. Castle?"
"Of course not," I snapped back. "But…"
Lunt interrupted. "If you had a play that was especially written for her, something no American actress could portray as well, then there might be a possibility."
Breathing a sigh of relief, I quickly said, "Is that all? I have a play written especially for Miss Schwanneke. I got it in Germany last year. No American actress could possibly do it. It was tailored especially for the great Schwanneke's talents." (I had never been to Europe in my life and had no such play, but I went on and on, hanging myself.).
"What is the name of the play, Mr. Castle?" Mr. Lunt asked.
Jesus. I thought to myself. I knew little or no German. Remembering a phrase from my childhood, one used by my parents, who were of German descent, when they wanted to discuss something that was not for my childish ears, I quickly blurted out, "The name of the play is…Das Ist Nicht für Kinder.” Mr. Lunt stared at me as I continued shooting off my big mouth. "It means Not for Children."
"I know," said Mr. Lunt, "I speak German."
"I guarantee it will be on Broadway in the fall, Mr. Lunt. It has forty people in the cast. Think of all the work it will mean for all our good American actors, forty! Maybe I'll write ten more in, making it an even fifty. Won't that make some American actors happy?" There was a long pause. "Come on, Mr. Lunt, give me a break."
"I'll tell you what, Mr. Castle," he said politely. "This is Friday. You bring in the play Das Ist Nicht für Kinder on Monday at noon, with a cast of forty, tailored especially for Miss Schwanneke, and I'll take it before the board of directors."
"Yes, sir, I'll be here with the play."
Now, all I had to do was write the goddamn thing! It was 3:00 P.M. and there was no time to lose. Racing to my one room on Riverside Drive, I tried to figure what kind of play could be written by 12:00 Monday.
Four P.M. I started to write. One hour later, the title page was completed—Das Ist Nicht für Kinder, written by Ludwig von Herschfeld. That name sounded as good as any. A new German playwright was born.
Six pots full of coffee and forty-eight hours later, the play was written. It had the forty characters I had promised— thirty-nine, to be exact, and a dog.
I had wanted to write a horror play, but Schwanneke had balked: "There's enough horror in the world. People want to laugh in the theatre, not be frightened." So I wrote a tour de force for Schwanneke, about a German girl coming to America for the first time, her love life and adjustment to the American scene.
Whenever I had a suit pressed or cleaned, which was rarely, I used the German-Jewish tailor around the corner. Manuscript in one hand, suit in the other, I raced to his shop.
"Hans, please have this cleaned." I handed over the suit. "Oh—and a special favor, Hans…Do you think you could get your son Willie to translate this from English into German?" I showed him the play and Hans shouted for his son.
Willie agreed to translate the play for $10, but it would take him a week. That was too late, it had to be ready by Monday. For an extra $10 he promised to stay up all night and have it on Sunday.
Although international relationships were strained, there was still a German consul in New York. On Monday morning, with the translated manuscript in hand, I pleaded, cajoled, and begged a German vice-consul to stamp a swastika on the cover and to throw in some red ribbons to make it look official.
In Central Park, I threw the manuscript onto a pile of refuse and jumped up and down and stamped on it several times to make it look reasonably worn and dirty. Then I scorched the edges, just enough to make it look like it had come out of some bombed-out building in Europe. A watching policeman thought I was completely nuts, but possibly harmless, and waited to see if I would become violent.
Eleven-thirty A.M.—thirty minutes to go—I hopped into a cab and arrived at Actors Equity with five minutes to spare. Two hours later, permission was given by Actors Equity to use Miss Schwanneke in Das Ist Nicht für Kinder at the Stony Creek Theatre.
An easily assembled cast moved to Stony Creek in Connecticut that summer and started rehearsal. The theatre was excellent; Orson Welles had completely renovated it. We all lived in a little house about a block from the theatre, where a nice, motherly woman cooked our meals and looked after us.
Engraved announcements were sent out—"William Castle proudly presents the American debut of Ellen Schwanneke, star of German stage and screen, in Ludwig von Herschfeld's masterpiece Das Ist Nicht für Kinder." After the second week of rehearsal, I checked the box office and found no tickets had been sold. People had been calling, but when they were told Orson Welles and the Mercury Players were not performing, they lost interest. I had bitten off more than I could chew. I was unknown, and Ellen Schwanneke was not the box-office attraction I thought she would be.
That night I woke up in a Castle sweat. I had had a very realistic nightmare about opening a play with thirty-nine actors and a dog on stage and two people in the audience. Disaster! My play was closing before it opened.
To make matters worse, a heat wave suddenly hit Connecticut. Air conditioning was unheard of, and the theatre was like a furnace. People not only weren't buying tickets, they weren't even on the streets.
Rehearsal had broken early because it was just too hot to work. Sitting in the box office paying bills, I wrote a final check on my remaining $5,000. In one month I had blown the full $10,000 and there were no customers in sight.
Looking up, I thought I saw a customer approaching and I quickly shook the ticket seller, who had dozed off in the heat. "Wake up, Joe. We've got one—sell her some of the expensive seats."
As the young lady approached, I realized it wasn't a customer after all, it was Ellen Schwanneke. What the hell did she want?
She looked deeply concerned. "Bill, I must speak to you privately. Something terrible has happened."
My heart sank as I took her to a corner of the lobby. "What's the matter Ellen? You're not ill?" Silently she opened her purse and handed me a gold-embossed card. "It's an invitation from Adolf Hitler to return to Germany."
I studied the card, which was written in German. Puzzled, I said, "Why you?"
"It's the festival. All the great German stars will be present and they have summoned me to attend, all expenses paid." There was a letter with the invitation, signed by Dr. Joseph Goebbels, the Reichsminister of Propaganda and Enlightenment. Ellen translated for me. It said in effect that the Führer would be honored if she would attend a special reception in the Führer's Wing of the Brown House in Munich and to please reply immediately to Dr. Goebbels.
Ellen explained she had left Germany because of the Nazis. They controlled the arts, and she didn't like their interference with free expression. Her father, a star comedian of the German stage for years, had recently died. He had also run "Schwanneke's," for years the most celebrated café rendezvous of artists and actors in the German capital. "Just before the Nazis came to power, he passed away," she said, "and it was a blessing. If he'd seen what they've done to Germany, seen the caliber of the German theatre falling lower and lower, he would have suffered more than I."
Moved by her words, I pressed her further. Tears freely flowing, she continued. "There is no race in art but I happen to be what the Nazis call one hundred percent Aryan. I was brought up with stage people, and whether they were Christians or Jews made no difference. Now, in Germany, I am expected to give them up and consider them the scum of the earth. It offends my two deepest loyalties: personal and artistic. That is why I'm here in your country, because I refuse to obey their rules and adhere to their principles. But we're not even going to be able to open the play here and I can get no other work. It doesn't look like I have much choice but to go back to Germany."
There was silence for a moment as she continued crying. "Ellen, have you any family in Germany?"
"No, not anymore."
"Tell me the truth, do you ever want to go back?"
Her eyes blazed. "Not as long as Hitler is in power. He has taken my Germany. I want nothing to do with him."
It was like an oven in the theatre lobby. Ellen was still crying, and my shirt was soaking wet—not from her tears, but from sweat. I grabbed her by the arm and took her out into the fresh air. "Stop crying. I'll take care of everything. You'll never have to go back—I'll see to that."
She looked up at me with those big brown eyes. "What are you going to do, Bill?"
I couldn't help smiling at the preposterous idea that was forming in my head. "Wait and see, just wait. I think Adolf Hitler has brought us good luck…the dirty bastard!"
With the invitation in my hand I went to the Western Union office down the street. It was just closing. I told the pretty girl that sent the wires that it was imperative she stay open…an emergency! When I started to dictate, she almost fainted.
"Cable to Adolf Hitler, Munich, Germany. Dear Mr. Hitler: Ellen Schwanneke turns down your invitation. She has positively said no. She wants nothing to do with you or your politics. She will not return to Germany as long as you remain in power. Signed, William Castle, Producer/Director, Stony Creek Theatre, Connecticut. P.S. She's working for me now."
The pretty girl asked in a shaky voice, "Do you really want me to send this?"
"Of course, and send another one of the same to Dr. Joseph Goebbels…G-O-E-B-B-E-L-S."
Later that day, I had twenty copies each made up of the gold-embossed invitation from Hitler, the letter from Goebbels and my cable.
I went into Manhattan to see the managing editors of every large daily New York newspaper. To each one I said the same thing. "Look, I'd like your advice on this matter. Miss Schwanneke doesn't want any publicity for obvious reasons, so please don't print this. But I want you to listen to this incredible story." I played it very naive and dumb. If the editors didn't ask for copies of the invitation and cable, I'd leave them on their desks anyway, as if I'd forgotten them.
Covering all New York this way, I hoped someone would swallow the bait. This was a good publicity story. I smelled it. But in my wildest dreams I never imagined what the full result would be.
The next day the absolutely incredible happened. Luck was with me. It was one of those rare days when nothing major in world affairs had happened and no really big news items had appeared to fill the daily papers. My timing had been perfect. We made the front pages. Four New York newspapers carried banner headlines:
"THE GIRL WHO SAID NO TO HITLER"
"STOOD UP HITLER, BANNED ON NAZI STAGES"
"GERMAN ACTRESS SNUBS FUEHRER"
"FUEHRER'S IDEA OF HAVING FUN ISN'T SCHWANNEKE'S"
Some papers printed the invitation and my cable. All had long articles about Ellen Schwanneke and her American debut. I jumped for joy. I had actually attracted more attention than Orson Welles. The Daily News said I was even more theatre-mad than Welles. Then wire services picked up the story and it hit front pages all across America—The Girl Who Said No to Hitler was playing at Stony Creek under the direction of William Castle.
I was at the box office when the papers hit the streets and the orders started pouring in. Although opening night was still a week away, we were sold out in a few hours. Not for Children, an obscure play written in forty-eight hours, was going to be a commercial hit.
Now that the play was an insured success, I relaxed and continued final rehearsals. But one thing I had overlooked was the German-American Bundists. Letters came in addressed to Schwanneke and me protesting her snub of Hitler. Some went as far as to threaten her life. Others said they would try to prevent the show from opening at all.
I needed one final publicity stunt to make it the biggest opening of the season—something that Orson Welles would be proud of. I must admit that I am totally ashamed at what I did.
At 4:00 A.M. the night before the play opened, the alarm clock went off. Hurriedly, I threw on a bathrobe and in total darkness, went to the theatre. The streets were deserted. With some lumber from backstage, I smashed windows in the theatre and overturned the box office. Then, with red paint, I drew swastikas on the walls, I went back to my room and waited for the results.
At 8:00, members of the cast and crew awakened me. Panic had set in. They had already been to the theatre, and now they dragged me there to see what had happened. A small crowd was standing around. Several people asked whether we'd open that night.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I responded, "Not for Children, starring Miss Ellen Schwanneke, will open as scheduled even if I have to get the governor of Connecticut to give us the state militia for protection." And that's exactly what I did.
The only way I got through to the governor was by saying I was Orson Welles. I told him what happened and hysterically demanded complete protection. He promised it, and he kept his word.
On opening night soldiers with helmets and guns surrounded the theatre. Klieg lights flashed everywhere. Members of the audience arriving in formal attire were carefully inspected. It was one hell of an opening.
SAMUEL MARKS, an emissary of powerful Harry Cohn's Columbia Pictures, was intrigued not only with Not for Children, but with the entire company. He had such delight and fun with the entire atmosphere at Stony Creek that he decided to move in with us for a few days while we began rehearsal for a second production, This Little Piggy Had None, a horror play. The story was about the mental breakdown of a timid man who is so taunted by his facial resemblance to a pig that he finally cracks up and becomes a murderer. At last I was going to frighten the wits out of the audience.
It was a difficult morning of rehearsal, and the leading man was becoming discouraged. He wasn't acting enough like a pig. I called lunch and we all proceeded to the beautiful lawn in back of the theatre where fried chicken, salad, and lemonade were spread out on the table.
Munching on a chicken leg, Sam Marks casually asked if I would be interested in coming to Hollywood and working for Columbia Pictures. A piece of chicken got stuck in my throat, but I managed a croak. "I thought you'd never ask."
Sam smiled and said, "I can make no promises, but I think Harry Cohn will like you. At least it's worth the gamble." I was so excited that my appetite vanished. Sam tried to calm me down. "Remember I can offer you nothing, only an introduction to Harry Cohn. But I'll tell
him about the great work you’ve done here.”
"Sam, I can be ready to leave in two weeks. Is that okay?"
He said it would fit in perfectly with his plans. There was some business he had to attend to in New York that would keep him busy for about a week; then we could drive out to the Coast in his car. Making sure not to get my hopes too high, he again stated that it was just a chance. But what a chance, I thought; to meet and possibly work for the great Harry Cohn at Columbia.
Time moved very slowly, but I kept busy rehearsing. Then Sam called and told me he was returning to the Coast immediately, flying back that day.
"Bill, why don't you take my car and drive out yourself?"
"That's great, but I don't drive."
"That's all right Bill, I'll put an ad in the paper for someone who wants to go to California and would be willing to drive you. See you in Hollywood, Bill; wire before you leave…and good luck."
During the next few days three or four people called, interested in driving Sam's car to Hollywood. I decided on Charlie, a very likable fellow about my age, who wanted to get to San Francisco. Wiring Sam, I told him we were leaving that Sunday.
Because of the trip, I canceled another scheduled production, Sidney Kingsley's play Dead End. Having already paid for the stage props, I took them with me, throwing them in the back of the car with my luggage.
The ride out west was an enjoyable one. Neither Charlie nor I shaved, and we wore sweatshirts and dungarees. We must have looked like bums as we drove into Cheyenne, Wyoming in the middle of the night. Looking for a place to sleep, Charlie made a U-turn in the middle of the block. A police car motioned us over to the side. A cop got out and flashing a light in our faces, studied our unshaven and grubby appearance and Sam Marks's expensive car.
"You guys made a U-turn in the middle of the block."
"Sorry," I said with great charm.
"Where you headed?" the cop asked. "Hollywood."
"Well, keep on going." Without asking to see any identification papers, he walked back to his patrol car and drove off.
Being too tired to keep driving, we ignored the cop's advice and pulled up in front of a modest-looking house on a tree-lined street. As we went in to get rooms I thought I spotted a police car, but I was too damned sleepy to care.
The clerk gave us two adjoining rooms and asked for $15 in advance. I asked why it was so expensive, and he looked at me knowingly and winked. "It'll be worth every cent."
The room was dirty and sparsely furnished. I couldn't figure out why it was so expensive, but I was exhausted and so I flopped onto the bed and immediately fell asleep.
I was awakened by a knock. Opening the door, a luscious blonde entered. She whispered, "Are you ready, darling?" A red light went off in my head. I was in a whorehouse! Well, it had been paid for in advance, so why not?
Just as things were getting started, the door burst open and two cops, guns drawn, were in the room. "Put your hands on your head and don't move."
On top of the blonde, hands over my head, I felt like an idiot. Charlie, my driver, was standing outside the open door in handcuffs.
"Jesus, fellas," I said. "What the hell's the matter? Honestly, I didn't know this was a whorehouse." They suggested I get my clothes on.
Handcuffed, Charlie and I were hustled downstairs and into a patrol car. "Do they arrest you in Wyoming for getting laid?" I asked the cops. They remained silent. What I didn't know was that shortly after the police had stopped us for making a U-turn, there had been a holdup at a gas station. We answered the description of the holdup men; even the getaway car looked like Sam's.
At the police station I was fingerprinted and questioned. Denying everything, I demanded my rights as a citizen. When they asked to see the car registration, I was dismayed to find out Sam had forgotten to give it to us, and when they opened my luggage and saw the theatre props I was carrying—counterfeit money, handcuffs, a blackjack and stage guns, including several sawed-off shotguns—they knew they had another John Dillinger. I was allowed to make one telephone call. Shit! Sam Marks wasn't home.
I tried to convince the police I was working for Harry Cohn at Columbia Pictures in Hollywood. They listened silently, their stony faces occasionally nodding, then promptly tossed us into a barred cell and locked it. They probably threw away the key. After all, they had two desperadoes—I had finally hit the big time!
Chapter V—Get Your Ass in Here!
GRASPING the bars with both hands, I shouted at the top of my voice, "H-E-L-L-L-P!"
Angry voices came out of the night, "Shut up…go to sleep."
Turning to Charlie, I said meekly, "That's a good idea. Let's go to sleep."
He gave me a disgusted look, then stretched out on the dirty mattress that was on the floor and immediately fell asleep. Maybe he'd been in jail before.