The Other Side of Me

It was a smooth, pleasant flight. I sat in a large commercial plane filled with passengers, wearing my Air Corps uniform with shiny wings and getting continually airsick while all the passengers stared at me. I'm convinced that if I had been allowed to fly combat, the war would have been shorter. But we would have lost.



We arrived in New York, at the land of the Brill Building and the RKO Jefferson and Max Rich, and the memories that flooded in seemed to belong to another world, another time.



Ben Roberts was at the airport to greet me with a big hug. On the way to the hotel, Ben brought me up-to-date on his activities.



"I'm stationed at Fort Dix," he said, "writing war training films. You can't believe what they're like. In one film we spend ten minutes showing recruits how to raise the hood of a car. It's like writing for five-year-olds. How long are you going to be in New York?"



I shook my head. "It could be an hour, it could be a week. I think it's going to be closer to an hour." I explained my situation to him. "I'm waiting for a call to report back to the Air Corps, and it could come at any minute."



We reached the hotel where I had reservations, and I went to the desk. "I'm expecting a very important long-distance phone call," I told the clerk. "Very important. Please make sure I get it immediately."



Ben and I made a date for dinner the following night.



The next morning, I telephoned my agent, Louis Schur, in California. I told him that I was in New York and had free time until the secondary flying school opened up.



"Why don't you go to the office," he suggested, "and see my partner, Jules Zeigler? He might have something for you to do while you're here."



Jules Zeigler, head of the New York office, turned out to be a swarthy man in his forties, with a quick, nervous energy.



"Louie told me you'd be coming," he said. "Are you looking for a project to do?"



"Well, I - "



"I have something interesting. Have you ever heard of Jan Kiepura?"



"No. Is that some holiday?"



"Jan Kiepura is a big opera star in Europe. So is his wife, Marta Eggerth. They've made a lot of movies over there. They want to do a show on Broadway, The Merry Widow."



The Merry Widow, a famous operetta by Franz Lehar, was the story of a prince from a small kingdom who courts a wealthy widow to keep her money in his country. It was always playing somewhere around the world.



"They want someone to update the book. Are you interested in meeting them?"



What was the point? I was not going to be in New York long enough to write a letter, let alone a Broadway show.



"I don't think that I can - "



"Well, at least go meet with them."



I met Jan Kiepura and Marta Eggerth in their suite at the Astor Hotel. When Kiepura opened the door for me, he looked at my uniform and said, puzzled, "Are you the writer?"



"Yes."



"Come in."



Jan was a powerfully built man in his forties, with a heavy Hungarian accent. Marta was slim and attractive, with wavy shoulder-length hair, and a welcoming smile.



"Sit down," Kiepura said.



I sat.



"We want to do The Merry Widow, but we want it to be modernized. Jules says you're a good writer. What have you written?"



"Fly-By-Night, South of Panama . . ." I named some of the B pictures that Ben and I had done.



They looked at each other blankly. Jan Kiepura said, "We will let you know."



That's that. It's over. And it's just as well.



Thirty minutes later, I was back in Jules Zeigler's office.



"They just called," Zeigler said. "They want you to write the show."



The black cloud descended over me. There was no way I could do it. Broadway was the Mecca every writer aspired to. What did I know about writing a Broadway show? Absolutely nothing. I would make a fool of myself and destroy the production. Anyway, I expected to receive the phone call to report back to the Air Corps at any second.



Jules Zeigler was watching me. "Are you all right?"



I did not have the courage to tell him I was not going to do the show. "Sure."



"They want you to start right away."



"Right."



I went back to my hotel room. I would have to tell them that there was no way I could do it. But as I thought about it, I realized that there was a way. Ben Roberts. Ben could write the show with me. And when I got called back to the Air Corps in the middle of the project, Ben could finish it.



I called him at Fort Dix.



"What's new?" he said.



"I'll tell you what's new. You and I are going to write a new book for The Merry Widow."



There was a pause. "I didn't know you drank."



"I'm serious. I've talked to the stars of the show. They want us."



He was speechless.



The following day, I went to the theater where The Merry Widow was going to open. The show was being produced by the New Opera Company, headed by Yolanda Mero-Irion, a short, buxom, middle-aged woman with a high, shrill voice.



It was a first-class production. The choreography was being done by the legendary George Balanchine, who was one of the century's foremost choreographers. Balanchine was of medium height with the well-developed body of a dancer. He had a friendly smile and a faint Russian accent.



The director was the brilliant Felix Brentano, and the conductor was Robert Stolz, who was a wonderful composer in his own right. The prima ballerina was Milada Mladova, a stunning young European dancer.



I had a meeting with Balanchine, Stolz, and Brentano, and we discussed the libretto.



"It must be as modern as possible," the director said, "but we must not lose its period flavor."



"Entertaining and amusing," Balanchine said.



"Lighthearted," Robert Stolz commented.



Right. Modern, but keeping the period flavor, entertaining and amusing, lighthearted. "No problem."



Ben and I had figured out a way to collaborate. Since he was stationed at Fort Dix in New Jersey all day, working on training films, he would come into New York at night, where we would have dinner and work together until one or two in the morning.



My fears about writing a Broadway play had evaporated. Working with Ben made everything seem easy. He was incredibly creative and he gave me a confidence I lacked.



When we finished writing the first act, I took it to our producer, Yolanda Mero-Irion. I watched eagerly while she read the pages.



She looked up at me. "This is terrible. Dreadful," she spat out.



I was stunned. "But we did everything that - "



"You've written a flop for me! A flop! You hear me?" Her tone was vicious.



"I'm sorry. Tell me what you don't like and Ben and I will rewrite it and - "



She got up, glared at me, and walked out.



I was back to my first opinion. What made me ever think I was capable of writing a Broadway show?



As I sat there, contemplating the disaster that was about to happen, George Balanchine and Felix Brentano came into the office.



"I hear you have a first act."



I nodded glumly. "Yes."



"Let's look at it."



I was tempted not to show it to them. "Sure."



They started reading it and I wished I were somewhere else, anywhere.



I heard a chuckle. It was Felix Brentano. And then a laugh. It was George Balanchine. They were both grinning as they read it.



They liked it!



When they finished, Felix Brentano said to me, "This is wonderful, Sidney. Exactly what we were hoping for."



George Balanchine said, "If the second act is as good as this . . ."



I couldn't wait to give the news to Ben.



At the hotel, I stayed close to the telephone, expecting the call from the Army Air Corps at any moment, and when I was out of the hotel, I always left instructions as to where I could be reached.



For singles, New York can be a lonely town. I had had some casual conversations with our prima ballerina, Milada Mladova, and we had gotten along well. One Sunday, when there was no rehearsal, I invited her to dinner and she accepted.



I wanted to impress her, so I took her to Sardi's, the favorite restaurant of show people. I was still in uniform.



During dinner, Milada and I discussed the show and she told me how excited she was to be in it.



And finally dinner was over. I asked for the check. It came to thirty-five dollars. Very reasonable. Except that I did not have thirty-five dollars. I stared at the check for a long time. Credit cards were not yet in existence.



"Is anything wrong?" Milada asked.



"No," I said, hastily. I made a decision. "I'll be right back."



I got up and walked over to the entrance, where Vincent Sardi, the owner, was standing.



"Mr. Sardi . . ."



"Yes?"



This was going to be difficult. Vincent Sardi had not built up his business by catering to deadbeats.



"It's about my check," I said nervously.



He was studying me. He knows a deadbeat when he sees one.



"Is there something wrong with it?"



"No. It's fine. I - I just don't have - I don't have - you know - the money." I wondered if Milada was watching. I quickly went on. "Mr. Sardi, I wrote the play that's opening at the Majestic Theatre, across the street. But it hasn't opened yet. And at the moment, I - I don't have enough to - I wonder if you could trust me until the play opens."



He nodded. "Of course. It's no problem. And I want you to know you are welcome to come here at any time."



My spirits lifted. "Thank you so much."



"Not at all." He shook my hand. There was a fifty-dollar bill in it.



Our producer, Yolanda, hated everything that Ben and I wrote. I had the feeling she hated it even before she read it.



"The show's going to be a flop," she kept saying. "It's going to be a flop."



I desperately hoped that she was not psychic.



George Balanchine, on the other hand, along with Felix Brentano and Robert Stolz, loved what Ben and I were writing.



During rehearsals, Yolanda leaped around the stage like an overgrown grasshopper, barking orders at everyone. The professionals were too busy to be bothered.



One day, during a break mid-rehearsal, Balanchine came to me and said, "I would like to talk to you."



"Certainly. Is anything wrong, George?"



"No. A friend of mine, Vinton Freedley, is producing a new play. He's looking for a writer. I told him about you and he would like to meet you."



"Thanks," I said gratefully. "I'd love to meet him."



Balanchine looked at his watch. "As a matter of fact, you have an appointment to see him at one o'clock."



Two Broadway plays on at the same time? Unbelievable.



Vinton Freedley was one of the most important producers on Broadway. Among his credits were Funny Face, Girl Crazy, and at least half a dozen more hits. Freedley was an efficient, down-to-business producer who got right to the point.



"George tells me you're good."



"I try."



"I'm doing a show called Jackpot. It's about a girl who raffles herself off to raise money for the war effort and the winning ticket is won by three soldiers."



"It sounds like fun," I said.



"I already have a writer, Guy Bolton, but he's English and I think he needs an American to work with him. Would you like the job?"



"I certainly would." Then I added, "By the way, I have a collaborator, Ben Roberts. He would work with me."



Freedley nodded. "That's fine. The score is being written by Vernon Duke and Howard Dietz."



Two top Broadway names.



"How soon can you start?" Vinton Freedley asked.



"Right away." I tried to sound confident, but at the back of my mind was the thought that the call could come in at any second and I would have to report back for advanced flight training.



Freedley was talking. "We've begun casting already. So far, we have Allan Jones and Nanette Fabray. Let me show you the set."



I was surprised that the set had been built before the play was written. Freedley walked me over to the Alvin Theatre and we went inside.



On the stage was a huge white southern house with a picket fence.



I looked at Freedley, confused. "You said this show was about American soldiers who win a girl in a - "



"This is the set from my last show," Freedley explained. "The show flopped, so we're going to use the set for this one. It will save a lot of money."



I wondered how we were going to work a gothic southern mansion into a modern war story.



"Let's go back to the office. I want you to meet Guy."



Guy Bolton turned out to be a charming Englishman in his fifties who had written several plays with P. G. Wodehouse, the British icon.



I had been afraid that he would resent another writer being brought in on his play, but he said, "I'm delighted that we're going to work together."



And I knew we would get along.



When I returned to my hotel, I asked the hotel clerk if there had been any messages, and I held my breath while he looked.



"Nothing, Mr. Sheldon."



Great. No advanced flying school has opened up yet.



I hurried to my room and telephoned Ben at Fort Dix.



"You and I are writing a musical for Vinton Freedley," I said.



There was a long silence. "They took us off The Merry Widow?"



"No. We're doing The Merry Widow and the Freedley play."



"My God. How did you arrange that?"



"I didn't. George Balanchine did. We're working with an English writer named Guy Bolton."