In East Berlin

THEATRE: Last week I said that the visit to East Berlin was memorable for more than one reason. There I had the opportunity of meeting with Helena Weigel - Bertolt Brecht’s wife and a much respected actress of the Berliner Ensemble. After the death of her husband she led a more or less reclusive life and did not meet many outsiders.

My trip to East Berlin was in the hands of a lady by the name of Mrs. Huber - a very high official of the Cultural Ministry there. When I told her I would like to meet Helen Weigel, she raised her eyes and said that she would try her best to get an appointment but that she doubted whether one would be granted.

“Please tell her that I have got some excellent Ceylon tea for her and also some unique items of our handicrafts”. Mrs. Huber smiled indulgently. “Your tea might be a good attraction. I have already tasted what you gave me. It is, in fact, excellent. I can vouch for that!” said Mrs. Huber, smiling broadly.

She had a cherubic face and it was a delight to see her smile. [I still get an occasional greeting card or a letter from Mrs. Huber - even after the amalgamation of the two Germanies.]

A man by the name of Dick Stolt had been assigned to interpret for me and generally look after my interests while I was in East Berlin . Dick is an interesting “story” by himself. He was an American who had chosen to make East Germany his home because he hated American politics and her “grab all” policy.

“America is a sick giant:, he often declared. Dick was in the employ of the East German Foreign Ministry as a top grade interpreter and handyman. How he came to know German so well, I don’t know. But it was obvious that he was a trusted and respected man of the Foreign Office.

Later, after I came to know him “well” in my two weeks’ time in East Berlin, I also came to know that he was an aspiring “actor”. Being a tall and macho looking man with a good gravel voice one would have expected that there would be no problem of his becoming an actor.

But somehow, his efforts in that direction had met with failure in his native America . That was also a chip on his shoulder, when he decided to “quit” America . He had hopes of becoming one, here in Germany . He had not broached the subject yet, to the German authorities. Whether he succeeded eventually, I don’t know.

I was given access to the Berliner Ensemble premises without any restrictions, which meant that I could watch their rehearsals, attend the evening performances and even use their canteen which served meals at very much subsidized prices. Dick Stolt loved this arrangement. He could never have got a better deal from any of his other charges.

So Dick and I would watch the morning and afternoon rehearsals [They were rehearsing a new production of Brecht’s adaptation of Maxim Gorky’s novel “The Mother” with Helena Weigel playing the lead role, at the time of my visit in September 1967.] see the evening performances and use the canteen liberally.

The canteen served excellent German beer and a very special soup which was called ‘borsch’. We both loved the beer as well as the borsch. This was cheap living for both of us!

Gloomy evening

I will come to more of Dick Stolt later. I would like to speak about my meeting with Helena Weigel. Yes, she had agreed to give me an audience and she had said she loved Ceylon tea in doing so! The time of the meeting was around 5 in the evening and I was waiting in the lobby for my interpreter, Dick Stolt, to arrive.

It was raining outside and was a rather gloomy evening. As I waited watching the entrance for Dick Stolt, I noticed a very Sinhala looking man approach me from a corner of the lobby - I was sure he was from Ceylon . He came up to me, and stood before me solemnly. Something ticked in my mind bad news, it told me.

“You are Mr. Henry Jayasena?” He asked me and I said yes, I am. “I have a letter for you from your wife.” He told me and pulled out a rather crumpled envelope from his breast pocket. “Mr. Jayasena, please accept my deepest sympathies.” He added extending a hand towards me.

I went through the letter but I already knew what the news was - that my mother had passed away. She had been ill with cancer for a long time and I knew that she had not long to live. But it saddened me deeply that it had happened while I was away - I was the one who attended to her needs and looked after her as best as I could. I was her favourite son.

The man who brought the letter introduced himself to me as Lakshman Rajapakse. I knew him as a leftist politician although I had not met him before. He was visiting East Berlin with some political delegation. “I am sorry I have had to bring bad news to you, Mr. Jayasena.

Your wife had come to know I was coming here and she had sent this letter to me through our mutual friend, Piyasena Gunatilleke and I had to oblige.” Said the man apologetically. “Thank you very much. You have been very kind. I assured him. “I have to keep a very important appointment now. Let’s meet later in the evening.” I told Mr. Rajapakse.

Dick Stolt had already appeared at the entrance and after excusing myself I proceeded towards Dick Stolt. He always used his own van for transport. I sat in the front with him and he started driving. He must have noticed something was wrong from my silence and the tears welling up in my eyes.

“What’s wrong, Henry “Shall I turn back?” He asked me. I told him not to but to draw up at some convenient place and give me five minutes.

I told him what had happened. He drew up immediately and offered his sympathies to me. “We don’t have to keep this appointment if you are disturbed. We can get another day. I can explain to Mrs. Huber” Dick Stolt was telling me. I shook my head, had a good cry and composed myself.

“No we cannot cancel or postpone the appointment.” I told him. “It is too important. It is not everyday one could get an audience with Helena Weigel.” I insisted.

Rasping voice

We drove in silence and reached the flat where Helena Weigel was living. “Dick, you must not convey this news to Helena Weigel.” I told him. “It is not necessary.” He shook his head and conducted me towards the flat. Helena Weigel greeted us very warmly and invited us in.

“So, you are the man from Ceylon . I did not expect such a young man.!” She said laughing. For a moment I got rooted to the place I was standing. Helena Weigel not only looked a little like my mother [when my mother was drawn and thin in her illness] but also had the same rather rasping voice.

My discomfiture must have shown. “Please sit down Mr. Jayasena and make yourself comfortable. You looked a little surprised or disturbed - am I right?” She was saying. And at that moment that fool, Dick Stolt blurted out the news of my mother’s death. I could have killed him! But Helena Weigel was very diplomatic.

She extended a hand of sympathy to me, made me sit down and told something to Dick in German, which I did not understand. She MUST have chided him for being so blunt. Dick mumbled something and became silent. Madam Weigel saved the situation with “dramatic” ease and got down to conversation.

She asked me about the impact of Brecht in Ceylon with the introduction of the Caucasian Chalk Circle. “That’s a nice play to begin with. It has a second theme of the story of the mother and child. That should appeal to oriental audiences.” I was amazed at her insight. What she said was quite true.

She thanked me for the excellent tea. I smiled as broad as I could and offered her the gifts of handicraft items I had carried for her. They consisted of a little tit-bid box made out of “Ittae kooru” [porcupine spikes] and a plain “hambiliya” made out of coloured mat-reeds. Helena Weigel was delighted - especially with the “hambiliya”.

“I don’t have much jewellery to put in your beautiful tit-bid box, but I have plenty of coins for this lovely purse.” She said I was as pleased as a punch. “I have been told that your wife plays the part of Grusche. She must be very young,” Madam Weigel said. “Not that young. She is thirty-two right now.”

I told her laughing. “What do you mean “not so young”. Our own Grusche was fifty-two when she played the part.” Said Weigel, chuckling. We talked about many things even beyond the allotted time. Weigel obviously knew something about Ceylon and she also knew a lot about our own production of the Chalk Circle.

It is possible she had got that information from the Brecht archives. She was a very pleasant and simple woman with her own unique personality. I had seen and heard her using that rasping voice of hers to great effect during the rehearsals of “The Mother”.

Sympathies

After about one hour, we took her leave. She extended a hand and offered her sympathies once again to me before I took her leave. “You must bring your Grusche, next year in February, when you come here again. I want to see her very much,” Said Weigel as a parting statement. I must have raised my eyes.

“Yes, we will be having the “Brecht Dialog” next February to mark the seventieth birth anniversary of Bertolt Brecht. And you MUST bring your wife, your Grusche, along for that event.”

Said Helena Weigel as she bid us goodbye. I thought that was just nice talk. No, it was not. In February, the following year - ie., 1968, we were both invited to the “Brecht Dialog” that was held for a whole week at the Berliner Ensemble Theatre. I will come to that later.

I was very sad at my mother’s death. Manel had tried to comfort me by saying that funeral arrangements were made very well and that she had attended the funeral with Chitrasena and Vajira. My Amma was very special to me. I had lived alone with her when I was very small before my father came and took me away.

I was the youngest in my family and Amma was also very fond of me. I never expected her to fall ill that way and suffer for a long time. I could never understand why. She was such a kind and gracious woman. She never asked anything from us, but gave whatever she had.

Only once she asked me to take her to the Dalada Maligawa. I did that but could not approach the inner Maligawa because of the massive crowds. She was very frail and I persuaded her to come back without having to spend so much time in the queue.

I wanted to do so much for her but time did not permit me to do. At least I have the satisfaction of taking her to the Temple in the very first motor car I owned - CN 9031 - a Triumph Mayflower.

Thought of the week

I was leafing through the grade 9 Sinhala text book issued free by the Education Dept. and to my delight I found that the entire scene of the Rotten Bridge from my Hunuwataye Kathawa is included in the book.

However my delight waned considerably when I found that there are many mistakes in the reproduction. I have already written to the Director of Publications of the Ministry of Education about the lapse.

It is rather strange that my permission had not been obtained to include this piece from my translation. Let that be. It is even stranger that royalties [any kind of royalty] are not paid to the authors for making use of their intellectual material - in spite of the Intellectual Properties Act. - in the texts that the Ministry puts out.

The compiler of the text is paid. So would be the printer - a huge sum I am sure considering the fact that thousands of books are printed. Then, why leave out the poor author ? And I mean POOR author.

We are not rich men and women who tax our mental faculties to the maximum to produce such reproduceable, quotable writings. Without our knowledge they become the literature of a period. Has literature no value? We don’t expect FORTUNES for this kind of use of our material. But we expect COURTESY in the form of at least a token gift.

God knows poor authors also need hard cash in order to exist. Our sources of income dwindle as we grow older and our expenses become even larger due to ill-health etc. - not to speak of the ever spiraling COST OF LIVING.

Why cannot the men who prepare these texts also include the cost of royalties, or gifts or whatever they may call it, in their budgets? Surely that would be a BETTER and more DIGNIFIED way of treating writers than giving them old age dole?

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