The Brothers Mankiewicz: Hope, Heartbreak, and Hollywood Classics

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

The End: Joe, 1993

ON FEBRUARY 9, 1993, THE FAMILY OF THE LATE JOSEPH LEO MANKIEWICZ assembled in the Bedford, New York, churchyard of St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church to bid Joe farewell. It was an unlikely resting place for the avowed-atheist son of Jewish immigrants, but like so much about Joe, it was complicated. Joe wanted to be buried next to his wife, Rosemary, and Rosemary was the daughter of a Church of England archdeacon. The fact that formally becoming Episcopalian made Joe officially not-Jewish was just a side benefit. Besides, as their daughter, Alex, joked, her atheist father probably didn’t mind a bit of insurance.

Wherever he was going, Joe would not be lonely. He had always wanted to be buried with his cherished pipes and his favorite Barking Dog tobacco (matches will not be necessary), but now there was his beloved black Lab, Cassius, whose ashes he had saved in a tin. Originally it seemed that Cassius would not be allowed to accompany him: animal remains were prohibited in the cemetery.

Yet there lay Joe, surrounded like an Egyptian potentate with his favorite books, plays, pipes, and tobacco pouch, secretly enjoying the last laugh. Because instead of Barking Dog tobacco, the pouch now held dead Labrador retriever ashes. As his son Tom said, Dad always hated to lose.

Joe’s death also concluded the story of the Mankiewicz brothers of Old Hollywood, brothers whose lives and careers spanned the history of Hollywood’s studio system. Joe and his older brother, Herman, started in the 1920s, writing titles (captions) for silent pictures. When movies exploded into sound, they wrote screenplays and became renowned for their witty dialogue. They wrote, directed, and produced some of the most memorable pictures of the industry’s Golden Age of the 1930s and 1940s, and were still there in the early 1950s, when the studio system began its decline. Each left behind one of Hollywood’s most iconic films.

Despite opposing career trajectories, Herman and Joe had much in common, and not just because they were brothers. They were first-generation Americans who hungered for their father’s approval, but not enough to conform to the career path he intended for them. They were brilliant students who expected their entire lives to fulfill their early promise. They were German Jews who resolutely defined their background as a religion, not a race. They were both erudite intellectuals and avid sports fans; irrepressible wits, quite capable of wounding; family men who caused their families great pain. Both embraced life with gusto yet spent their years in Hollywood yearning to return to New York. Both hoped to write a Great American Play, or at least a successful one, yet both achieved immortality through the medium they scorned for much of their lives.

After the service Joe’s family and friends gathered in his book-lined study, filling the room with talent as they admired the four Oscars on the mantel. All of Herman’s children and several of his grandchildren had become writers, for print and television as well as for motion pictures. Two of Joe’s three sons and his artist daughter had followed him into the business. As they visited, their common ancestor gazed out from the wall above Joe’s writing chair. Herman had commissioned their father’s portrait by designer Jo Mielziner, and Joe had worked beneath it for nearly forty years. Now Rosemary and Alex were ready to pass it on. But for all their pride in their heritage, none of Pop’s descendants seemed eager to take their progenitor home. Finally Rosemary decided Herman’s son Don, now the senior member of the Mankiewicz family, was its most appropriate custodian. Besides, Don wasn’t there to refuse it.

Pop had been an eminent and beloved personage in his field, but it was Herman and Joe who made the Mankiewicz name into a valuable Hollywood heritage. Ironically, it all began by accident. Herman went to Hollywood on a short writing assignment, planning to stay just long enough to earn the $2,200 he needed to pay off a debt.

But as Joe liked to say, life has a way of lousing up the script.

CHAPTER 2

The Beginning: Herman, 1926

HERMAN MANKIEWICZ LIKED TO SAY THAT EVERYONE ORIGINALLY came to Hollywood in pursuit of a lump sum.

Of course, Herman’s everyone was not really everyone who poured in during the 1920s motion picture gold rush. It did not include the pitiful characters flocking in to follow their dreams, whom Nathanael West portrayed in The Day of the Locust. Nor did it include many members of the movie colony’s elite, some of whom were having the time of their lives. Herman’s everyone meant people like himself, fellow writers like his boss and role model, George S. Kaufman, and friends like Dorothy Parker and F. Scott Fitzgerald, who considered themselves slumming but could not resist Hollywood’s lucrative payouts.

Like his friends, Herman aspired to higher things and considered money merely an unpleasant necessity of life. However, the longer Herman enjoyed his hefty Hollywood paychecks, the longer his list of life’s necessities became, and the harder it became to leave. Herman was hardly the only screenwriter who came to loathe himself for prostituting his talents, but Hollywood did not send Herman on his path of self-destruction. Herman’s drinking and gambling led him there in the first place.

Herman was only twenty-eight when he arrived, and he anticipated a quick return to his Algonquin Round Table friends; his job at the New York Times as Kaufman’s assistant theater editor; his position as the New Yorker’s first drama critic; his ongoing theatrical collaborations with Kaufman and Marc Connelly; his identity as Central Park West Voltaire. In short, a return to the life he loved and the profession he deemed worthy of his gifts.

One observer in particular watched Herman and hoped, possibly more anxiously than Herman, that he would grab that lump sum and return as quickly as possible. Professor Frank Mankiewicz, aka Pop, understood that, for all of Herman’s irreverence, his son was an original and erudite thinker, and he fervently wanted Herman to apply that penetrating intellect to worthwhile endeavors.

For Pop, there was no higher calling than teaching and no worthier existence than a life of the mind. He had given up imagining that Herman would follow him into academia and transferred that particular aspiration onto seventeen-year-old Joe. But Pop dared to hope that upon his return, Herman might shift his professional attention to subjects weightier than the Marx Brothers. Perhaps Herman would fulfill his own dream of writing theatrical work of merit. Or use his considerable knowledge of political history to shine in the world of journalism.

Pop’s love for his children was beyond doubt, but there was also a dark side to the admirable Frank Mankiewicz. He was a hot-tempered parent with impossibly high, Old World standards, and his harshness had already generated in Herman a sense of inadequacy and self-hatred that never left him. Herman always regretted the damage he wreaked on himself and his loved ones, but he never managed to overcome his cycles of self-destruction. Even knowing they practically guaranteed fulfilling the terrible image of himself Herman imagined he saw in his father’s eyes.

CHAPTER 3

The Real Beginning: Pop, 1891

IF POP IS THE KEY TO HERMAN—AND A KEY TO JOE—HOW FAR BACK to go? Perhaps a good place to start is 1913, when Herman, not quite sixteen, and Pop, almost forty-one, enroll at Columbia University. Herman is a freshman and Pop a candidate for a master’s degree. Both will leave that august institution with an education, an abundance of friends and contacts, and the valuable Ivy League imprimatur they will treasure for the rest of their lives.

They were unlikely students, so short of funds that Herman’s shabby suits changed color when it rained, and Pop lined his shoes with cardboard to make them last longer. Herman was accustomed to relative impecuniousness after years as a scholarship student at Harry Hillman Academy, in the Pennsylvania mining town of Wilkes-Barre. But at Hillman, Herman had been one of the smartest. At Columbia, Herman, like college freshmen then and ever after, found himself surrounded by classmates who were just as smart or smarter, often more affluent or more sophisticated, and in many cases, more talented.

Pop paid little attention to classmates. He was too busy supporting his family of five. While amassing a nearly perfect academic record, he substitute-taught all over the city during the day, instructed immigrants in English as a second language at night, and translated German travel brochures on the fly. By February 1914, Pop was a German teacher on the faculty of Manhattan’s prestigious Stuyvesant High School, coaching the slow students (gratis) and visiting the promising ones at home to convince their parents to send them to college even if they thought they couldn’t afford it. As for his family, Pop treated his own bright college student like an intellectual rival and as his vocation grew from a calling to an obsession, he practically ignored the rest of them.

Pop finished his master’s degree in February 1915 and earned his doctorate from New York University in 1924. Starting in 1927, he headed James Monroe High School’s modern languages department while teaching at City College of New York and other universities, including University of Southern California and UCLA (after Herman and Joe moved west). When City College made him an associate professor of education at the age of fifty-nine, and again in 1936, when he was promoted to full professor, hundreds of students, former students, and colleagues gathered to honor him at testimonial dinners. The 1936 group included Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia and Pop’s old friend Professor Albert Einstein.

Franz and Johanna, New York 1903.

The widely beloved and respected Professor Mankiewicz was the apotheosis of Pop’s particular American Dream, and that Pop—that admirable, idealized father—lived on in both sons’ psyches throughout their lives. And not just in their heads. Pop never stopped urging them to transcend their Hollywood careers and aim for higher things.

Actually, the story should begin further back, when Franz Mankiewicz arrived in New York in November 1891, a few weeks shy of his nineteenth birthday, hoping to find work as a journalist. He had studied French and German at University of Berlin, and with both parents dead, he left behind only two sisters teaching school in Berlin.

A typical German Jew (more German than Jewish), Franz later told Herman, Joe, and their sister, Erna, that his German family’s Polish surname originated when his father’s family lived in Posen, which later became part of Poland. Posen’s Jews were not required to take surnames until the nineteenth century, so when he needed one, Franz’s father, Jacob, adopted the name of a nice man who lived on a hill nearby. When Joe and Erna later claimed their family was originally Catholic, perhaps they were thinking of that nice man on the hill. Pop also told his children one of their ancestors had furnished Napoleon with a carriage during his 1812 retreat from Russia; given Napoleon’s route back to Paris, that is at least possible.

On New Year’s Eve 1896, Franz married Johanna Blumenau, a dressmaker who had emigrated from Kurland, a German-speaking area of Russia (later Latvia). Herman arrived on November 7, 1897, followed on February 27, 1901, by Erna Caroline. Joe would be a later surprise.

Hanna was considerably less educated than Franz. She signed her 1898 passport application with an X, and the family’s 1900 census record describes her as unable to read or write. But the lively blue-eyed blonde was clearly intelligent, and responses to census takers could be unreliable. She actually may have been able to read and write German—Kurlanders tended to be educated—and at some point, Hanna mastered English. Hanna’s accent was stronger than her husband’s, and when she became upset, she would mix German and English, with more expletives in German. Then she would laugh.

Her children’s recollections are characteristic. Erna recalled her mother reading and arguing out loud with New York Times editorials. Hanna especially adored New York’s colorful mayor, James (Jimmy) Walker, telling her teasing family, You can’t tell me in politics they’re not all crooked, but I would rather have a crook who helps poor people as well as himself. Herman described Hanna to a Life reporter in 1951 as a round little woman who was uneducated in four languages. She spoke mangled German, mangled Russian, mangled Yiddish and mangled English. Herman’s biographer, Richard Meryman, quoted that description in his 1978 biography, and Joe, ever vigilant to any hint of Jewishness, annotated his copy: he marked an X over Russian, drew a line through Yiddish, and wrote in the margin next to the offending passage, not one word did either of them know.

Besides her considerable gifts as a seamstress, Hanna was a born storyteller. If their father dominated his sons’ psychological landscapes, they acquired their sense of humor—and their distinctive sense of comic hyperbole—from their mother. They also absorbed Hanna’s ability to use humor to mask anger, though sometimes the mask slipped. Among her grievances was her husband’s inattentiveness, and one Sunday afternoon, as little Joe looked on in terror, she pulled her husband’s books from the shelves and hurled them all over the floor. Joe developed a protective shell to tune out his parents’ frequent arguments and later recollected the few good times as examples of his mother’s angry humor.

The intermittent times of relaxed tensions at family gatherings, as I recall them, were—if ever happy ones—those given over to one of Mom’s descriptive fantasies woven from some ordinary happening or perhaps a fanciful characterization of some family acquaintance—and, more often than not, a funny and biting savaging of one of Pop’s female teacher-pupils. An example I can remember of the latter was a shockingly ugly pedagogical slavvy of Pop’s … Mom used to work over mercilessly the ill-favored and overripe [Ms X], particularly in Pop’s presence (I think Mom suspected, with some justification, that she lusted after a type of enlightenment from Pop that was more akin to the slap-and-tickle to the foreskin rather the sheepskin), to the entertainment of us all. I can recall … Herman chuckling and egging Mom on—Erna giggling—Pop smiling and smoking away, even while being ribbed.

Once Joe was in school, Hanna created more of a life for herself outside the home. She became deeply involved helping disabled children, leading her family to joke that Mom took care of children’s crippled bodies, and Pop their crippled minds. Despite her strong accent, she also became a skilled and fearless fund-raiser. When you go to a rich man and ask for a donation to buy braces for crippled children, or to serve milk in public schools in the Bronx, you’re not asking for you, she told Erna. This is for the children that you’re asking, and if that man says no to you, then he is the one who should be embarrassed, not you.

Despite his frequent obliviousness, Pop was acutely aware of those whose good opinions he valued, especially members of New York’s German intellectual elite, whose Stammtisch (regulars’ table) he joined when he could. During his early years in New York, they gathered at Luchow’s, a German restaurant near Union Square, and if funds were particularly scarce, he would stay away or time his appearances to avoid the actual lunch meal. In his more successful years, he founded his own Stammtisch, in the Roerich Museum near Columbia, which included Einstein, among others.

In early years, Franz was frustrated by his inability to advance professionally and sometimes retreated into alcohol. Herman later recalled his father saying that drinking made him feel like a new man—and that new man wanted a drink. But Franz’s drinking was no joke. Alcohol shortened his already-short fuse, and his family bore the brunt of his temper. Hanna did not shrink from fighting back, but the abuse took its toll, especially on their firstborn, from whom Franz always expected much.

In 1905 Franz became editor of Demokratischer Wachter, a German language weekly newspaper serving Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania’s sizable German-speaking community. There, Americanized as Frank, he served as secretary of the Gesangverein Concordia (a men’s singing and social organization) and chaired the local Democratic club, which enabled his family to meet national figures like William Jennings Bryan. To supplement his income, he began tutoring Hillman Academy boys in German and French, and found he liked it so much that when Hillman’s modern languages teacher left, Frank left the newspaper to become a teacher.

Within a few years teaching became his calling. He founded a boys’ German club and staged German-language productions so popular they attracted Wilkes-Barre’s greater German American community. He also took students to Europe during the summer vacations, which enriched the boys’ education, supplemented his family’s income, and financed his own trips to visit relatives.

Even with more satisfying work, Pop remained a harsh parent. If Herman excelled in school, Pop shrugged it off as a function of his ability; if his performance was less than perfect, Pop excoriated him in front of the other boys in class. A ninety-two on a test would evoke, Where are the other eight points? In later years Pop asked the same question of Erna and Joe, as well as of his regular students and even his student teachers, but he asked the others with a smile. With Herman he didn’t smile. If Herman protested that his grade was the highest in class, Pop would shout, Don’t tell me you were the best in the class. There were plenty of boys who deserved that grade much more than you, because you didn’t do any work. You’re just telling me you’re in a class with a lot of inferior minds. Herman couldn’t win.

In addition to stinting on praise and doling out public shaming, Pop did not spare the rod. Whether or not he had done anything wrong, Herman was spanked several times a week, sometimes merely on general principles. Pop’s unrelenting demands and cruel punishments were terrifying, and Herman’s anger at the injustice mingled with his eagerness to please his charismatic father. Outside the family, Herman learned to use wit and humor to attract friends. He helped classmates with their work, and though he was a mediocre athlete at best, he always loved sports.

Herman and his bicycle, which was not named Rosebud.

Pop was an avowed atheist, but to expose them to their heritage, he sent Herman and Erna to Reform Jewish Sunday school. That experiment was short lived. The rabbi sent them home one day, and when Herman told his mother, Dr. Salzman says I can’t come to Sunday school anymore, Hanna feared the worst. However, when Herman explained, We’re not good Jews because we have a Christmas tree, that was the end of the Mankiewicz children’s religious education. They continued to celebrate Christmas and Easter, and one of Herman’s Christmases became part of film history.

When he was about ten, Herman begged for a bicycle, and his parents promised him one for Christmas. On Christmas morning, however, there was no bicycle, and though he got one a few weeks later, Herman never forgot the intensity of his disappointment. Once he had it, he reveled in the freedom a bike provided, and his parents enjoyed their new source of leverage. One day when Hanna had grounded him, Herman simply waited until she left, then rode to the public library, where he loved to lose himself in books for hours at a time, but on that occasion his bicycle was gone when he emerged.

Wilkes-Barre, 1909.

His parents refused to replace it, and despite the logic of their reaction, Herman experienced that loss so profoundly—and remembered those feelings so vividly—that he utilized them more than three decades later in Citizen Kane: Rosebud, moans Charles Foster Kane with his dying breath, and his beloved sled, Rosebud, becomes a powerful symbol of the lost familial love for which he yearns. Like Hanna, Charlie Kane’s mother does what she thinks best for her son. Like his creator, Kane becomes a self-destructive adult who never quite fills the void.

Generally, Wilkes-Barre provided pleasures of small-town life, like baseball and a comfortable house with a porch and a yard; and aside from his eruptions, Pop approached parenthood conscientiously and thoughtfully. He taught his children to respect authority but also to question even authorities if their facts or conclusions seemed dubious. Pop loved arguing and Joe said he never saw his father lose an argument, even if he was wrong. Herman frequently adopted outrageous positions, just for the fun of arguing, and according to Joe’s children, Joe also was never wrong. (Herman’s oldest son was offered a debate scholarship to Stanford, so, nature or nurture, that affinity survived at least unto the third generation.)

In 1908 Hanna, thirty-seven, learned that what she had assumed was menopause was actually pregnancy, and on February 11, 1909, she gave birth to Joseph Leo. Eleven and a half years younger than Herman, and eight years younger than Erna, Joe became their petted toy. He retained few memories of Wilkes-Barre, but he did recall Herman taking him to watch the luxurious Black Diamond Express train pass through on its way between New York and Buffalo. Both teenager and toddler loved watching the dining car, full of finely dressed people eating dinner off white tablecloths, and though it was not the world to which Pop aspired, its distant glamour called out to both his sons.

Herman started high school a couple of months shy of his twelfth birthday, and as he whizzed through in three years, Pop decided he should take the entrance examination for Columbia University in New York. Pop was taking correspondence courses from the University of Chicago and Lycée Français and wanted to attend Columbia himself, so he resolved that if he and Herman were both admitted, they were going. He would find the money somehow.

Herman passed the examination at thirteen and graduated at fourteen, the youngest prep school graduate in the history of Luzerne County. He also won prizes and spoke at graduation (The Value of a Great American Navy). He could not attend Columbia until he was fifteen, and Frank and Hanna sent him to work for a year. In an experience he always valued, Herman exchanged companions from the city’s elite for the camaraderie of coal miners. Working as a surveyor’s assistant, he wore a head lamp and accompanied them into the mine at dawn. In return, the miners taught Herman to drink beer and smoke cigarettes, skills he absorbed better than many of Hillman’s academic offerings.

The family left Wilkes-Barre in 1913, one step ahead of the bill collectors. As usual, Frank left Hanna the job of convincing their landlord their check was in the mail (it wasn’t). Joe was only four, but Wilkes-Barre left its mark, even on him. Over the years both Herman and Joe inserted the city’s name into their films whenever they could. The humorous quality of the name amused them, and they used it as shorthand for small-town provincialism: Wilkes-Barre became the Mankiewiczes’ Peoria.

HERMAN

CHAPTER 4

Herman’s Life Begins

NOT ALL OF HERMAN’S COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY SCHOOLMATES WERE privileged. Many also needed scholarships or patched together a variety of jobs. But Herman must have recognized his lack of social graces and decided the best defense was a good offense—literally. One college friend recalled that people were pretty rude to him because he really was a boor. He’d push his food on his fork with his fingers, would belch, use words forbidden then, like ‘half-assed.’ He wanted to be known as an eccentric, and he enjoyed shocking people.

When he wasn’t offering up a caricature of himself, Herman enthusiastically immersed himself in academic life. Students could study comparative literature with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Dana, a grandson of the poet; listen to Charles Beard’s economic interpretation of the Constitution; absorb Elizabethan literature at the feet of John Erskine, whose esteem for the great works of Western civilization led to Columbia’s famous core curriculum and beyond, to the Great Books movement. Erskine established the Boar’s Head Society, a literary club for students interested in writing, then led protégés through Homer and Virgil to newer poets like Robert Frost and Amy Lowell. He taught discipline and craftsmanship to the twenty or so students he admitted to his writing classes and became an important mentor to Herman and, later, to Joe.

To save tuition, Herman raced through college in three years, but those three years were packed. He joined Columbia’s honors program and, despite a keen interest in politics and history, majored in German and English. He took every possible English course and would devour literature his entire life. He demonstrated no interest in activism. One of Herman’s classmates was Howard Dietz, future lyricist and longtime publicity chief at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (Dietz created MGM’s Leo the Lion and coined its slogan, Ars Gratia Artis), and as he recalled, Mank was not a joiner; his ambition was to be a freeswinging heckler…. Having views was a form of intellectual therapy. It was clear, he said, that he was against the Right, the Left, and the Center, and the best party was one that was pro-Mank. In short, even as a teenager, Herman masked passion with humor. Sincerity risked exposing vulnerability; satire allowed him to puncture targets with his intellect.

Herman’s extracurricular activities anticipated his future interests. After spending most of his first year at the Boar’s Head Society, he added the Deutscher Verein (German Club) and Honors Forum, all agreeably commensurate with Pop’s plan that Herman follow him into teaching. But he was also drawn to the fast-paced, irreverent world of journalism and humor. After writing for the campus humor magazine, the Jester, he progressed to editing The Off-Hour, the humor column of Columbia Spectator, the school’s daily newspaper. That position allowed him to combine his powers of observation with his analytic abilities and biting wit while providing an enjoyable rise in stature in a community he respected.

Not that he disdained shortcuts. Dietz, who also had literary aspirations, was impressed by Herman’s poetry until he came across some of Herman’s cleverest lines in Life Sings a Song, a 1916 book of poetry by theatrical agent Samuel Hoffenstein. When confronted, Herman explained that Hoffenstein was a Wilkes-Barre family friend, and though Herman believed in plagiarism on principle, in this case he had traded some ideas for the verses, an exchange Hoffenstein later confirmed.

Herman also created a magazine—for one issue. Throughout his life, Herman rarely met a target he could resist ridiculing, no matter how laudable its goal—in fact, the more laudable the goal, the more irresistible the target. In 1916 it was Challenge, a new, intercollegiate, supposedly radical left magazine created by two of his friends, Max Schuster (eventual co-founder of Simon and Schuster), and Morris (Morrie) Ryskind (who later wrote Marx Brothers material and won a Pulitzer Prize with George S. Kaufman and the Gershwins for Of Thee I Sing). When Challenge attracted New York Times and New York Tribune coverage, Herman countered with Dynamite, which drew at least the Tribune. Besides predictable college-magazine pieces like Graft among Professors, which accused professors of failing to provide what students actually came for (a good time), Dynamite offered ten tips on how to have a radical mind: Blame everything on conditions. Never mind what a condition is. No one else knows, either…. Remember that the essence of radicalism is to state the trite in terms of the sensational…. Be personal. Everybody assaults institutions.

Dietz, Ryskind, and Herman were also focused on the world beyond Columbia, regularly submitting items to The Conning Tower, Franklin P. Adams’s (F.P.A.) column in the New York World. F.P.A. specialized in light verse and quips from pseudonymous contributors, both published writers and unpublished hopefuls, and to receive a nickname from F.P.A. was a badge of honor. Dorothy Parker was Dottie. Howard Dietz was Freckles. Morris Ryskind was Morrie. Herman was Mank.

Herman also fell in love with theater and gravitated to a group of likeminded friends, including Oscar Hammerstein II and Lorenz (Larry) Hart. Although Hammerstein’s grandfather was a well-known theatrical impresario, young Oscar had promised his parents he would go to law school. Hart, who had been writing songs and stories since childhood, had a Tammany Hall–connected father who revered his son’s talent and welcomed his friends to their house on nearby West 119th Street. The group often stayed up all night talking, and according to Henry Myers, another member who went on to a successful screenwriting career, A great deal of theatrical practice and theory that later developed in the New York theater was developed right there in that back room in that brownstone house.

Although Herman graduated in 1916, he was considered a member of the class of 1917, so having his musical chosen for Columbia’s prestigious Varsity Show was a particular honor. They were usually not written by undergraduates, much less juniors, and Herman’s was the first politically oriented selection. The Peace Pirates spoofed Henry Ford’s Peace Ship, a much-ridiculed 1915 initiative launched by the industrialist in hopes of ending the war. Herman wrote the book and lyrics, and Ray Perkins, who had spent the previous year playing piano on the vaudeville circuit to finance the rest of his Columbia education, wrote the music.

In the play, a group of men and women crossing the Atlantic Ocean on a mission to avert war are captured by pirates and taken to a South Sea island. The eloquence of perpetual candidate William J. Tryan saves them, and the second act finds them on the Connecticut country estate of Andrew Rockyford (a jitney pacifist) and Mrs. Rockyford (his better 99/100). Other characters include Pirate Chief Captain Kidd (he put the pie in pirate); Mrs. Kidd; some little Kidds; and R. L. Perkins, an entertainer. Hammerstein wrote and performed a blackface scene as a character called Washington Snow. Hart played Mrs. Rockyford (all women’s parts were played by men). The story also featured twenty chorus girls and a pony ballet. It was a heady beginning to Herman’s theatrical career.

The cast for Herman’s first produced show included (standing, left): Oscar Hammerstein II (Washington Snow) and Larry Hart (Mrs. Rockyford).

Herman also demonstrated an aptitude for publicity, linking the musical to a popular fund that had been inspired by a thirteen-year-old Brooklyn girl named Marjorie Sterrett. In a letter to the Tribune, Marjorie had offered her hard-earned dime toward building a battleship to help the United States prepare for war, and she wanted the battleship named America. After former president Theodore Roosevelt sent a dollar, and dimes poured in from everywhere, Congress passed a law allowing the navy to accept the fund’s $20,000 donation.

Pledging part of their opening-night revenues to the fund, the students invited Marjorie and called it Battleship Night. The show ran for a week at the Hotel Astor’s Grand Ballroom, and according to the Tribune, Mr. Hart did a stunning imitation of five Broadway favorites, so good that many people in the audience recognized the favorites, although they had never seen them (including Mary Pickford and Ethel Barrymore). Herman and Perkins were also lauded: The authors of the entertainment are by no means unknown. Ray Perkins has achieved considerable fame as a vaudeville pianist on the subway circuit, and H. J. Mankiewicz is rumored to have gotten a contrib into F.P.A.’s column several years ago. Both are members of the staff of ‘Jester,’ the university comic monthly, which was on sale in the lobby.

Herman also pursued time-honored college activities like drinking and gambling, and more than once Pop and Hart’s father joined forces to scour bars in search of their sons. Herman always liked intelligent women, and though he was a bit awkward, women always liked Herman. He didn’t date much, because dates cost money, a shortfall Herman often exacerbated by trying to gamble his way out of poverty. He lived at home, idolized by Erna as well as Joe, and contributed what he could to family funds. He typed theses for other students; worked in a city playground; and, with a rabbinical school dropout, co-managed a newsstand so lucrative that when the dropout was drafted in 1917, his brother took his place.

Dietz also recalled Herman running a lending library of dirty books, beckoning potential readers, Come In and Enjoy Yourself, at "$1 an hour for Fanny Hill, 50 cents for The Memoirs of Josephine Mutzenbacker. Dietz may have exaggerated about Herman’s career as a pornography purveyor, but what is not in doubt is that Herman was a champion moocher. Once the coal miners introduced him to the pleasures of nicotine and alcohol, Herman smoked and drank for the rest of his life. The caption below his Columbia senior yearbook entry read, We’ll say this much for H. J. Mank: When anybody blew, he drank."

Despite his often slovenly appearance, Herman’s yearbook photograph portrays a serious honors graduate, his tie neatly tied, his hair smoothly combed. That summer and into the fall, he combined news work and politics, working as a press agent for President Woodrow Wilson’s 1916 reelection campaign, which meant doing everything from arranging speeches to buying extra socks for prominent supporters. In deference to Pop, he returned to school as a fall 1916 graduate student in English, but he dropped out after one term.

Within a few months, he had jobs at two publications, both employers unaware of the other. At the New York Tribune, he started writing articles, book reviews, and short essays and by June had theatrical feature stories on the front page of the Sunday entertainment section. He was also assistant editor at the American Jewish Chronicle, a small weekly magazine founded by the Zionist intellectual Dr. Samuel Max Melamed to advocate for the rights of Jews after the close of the European war. There, Herman wrote about politics and theater, and even a short story or two.

Herman was nineteen and frequently facetious, but his natural sympathy sometimes poked through. His aptitude for vivid characterization was already apparent. In a July Tribune piece, he described actors seeking work:

During the busy parts of the day almost all of the booking agencies’ offices are crowded with [unknown aspirants], waiting their turn to be heard and to hear, in all probability, that there is nothing today. There is the girl with the Mary Pickford curls, who is sure she would make good if she were only given a chance. (Probably she would; therein lies the tragedy.) There is the faded old fellow who played with [renowned actor Edwin] Booth (in spite of the mathematical absurdity, the number of those who played with Booth is growing each year). There is the fresh young lad with the white socks who can’t realize that George M. Cohan had other equipment besides a gray bowler and a cold in the head…. There is the large, red-nosed person who talks familiarly of Lee [Shubert] and Charlie [Frohman] and Martin [Beck—all important producers] and the rest. There is—but what’s the use? You’ve probably seen them all yourself; they were all there yesterday; they will all be there tomorrow.

More typically ironic was The Tubercular Cow, a Chronicle short story about a thirty-four-year-old man who starts drinking to attract the affections of a young woman: Madelein, it was plain, had a brewery complex. Madelein was interested solely in men who drank. The narrator’s title is a metaphor based on the idiosyncrasies of a journalist he knows who is obsessed with tubercular cows because healthy cows bore him:

There are so many of them, you know. And so it was with Madelein. As a healthy cow, I was worth little more than passing attention. My merits, sad to relate, as dancer and conversationalist are limited, if not non-existent. As a tubercular cow, with the tuberculosis, so to speak, of Münchner Beer and Apricot Brandy, I was decidedly worth while. Madelein, in other words, was determined to reform me.

Herman’s formerly abstemious narrator eventually becomes so enamored of drinking that he loses Madelein rather than foreswear alcohol.

Herman retained his passion for theater, and Samuel Hoffenstein, the poetry-writing theatrical press agent from Wilkes-Barre, introduced him to some of the most important figures in his life, including Alexander Woollcott and George S. Kaufman. Woollcott was then the New York Times theater critic, and Kaufman, who moved to the Times at the end of 1917, was working hard to become a playwright himself.

In February 1918 Herman, twenty, went to Washington, D.C., to cover a speech by Dr. Melamed at George Washington University, and at the social hour afterward, he met an interesting pair of sisters. Naomi Aar-onson was studying to become a teacher. Her younger sister, Shulamith Sara, was Herman’s age, but her father had kept her out of college to help him at his box factory. Herman managed to wangle an invitation for dinner, and as they walked, he entertained them with stories of New York theater, describing the lead in a recent production of Ibsen’s Doll’s House as a fat, elocuting Nora, who in a self-respecting household, would have been munching poisoned macaroons ten minutes after the curtain went up. His insider gossip had the desired effect, at least on the younger sister, who will henceforth be known as Sara.

By the time we got home, she told Herman’s posthumous biographer, I was absolutely in a dreamworld. I’d never heard anything like such talk. (Joe had known Sara almost sixty years by the time the biography appeared, and his marginalia provide entertaining color commentary. Next to the account of his pseudo-sophisticated brother’s ability to impress the Aaronsons, Joe wrote, a good minor league pitcher throwing against a pick-up team of Girl Scouts …)

After dinner Sara, her four sisters, and one brother gathered around the piano to sing popular songs, and Herman further impressed them by knowing the verses as well as the choruses. Herman was captivated by the warmth of Sara’s family and by tiny, attractive, intellectually curious Sara. Pressing his advantage, he invited her to a local musical comedy the following night.

When he arrived for their date impressively attired in a tuxedo, Sara had no idea Herman wore it only because he had ripped his suit slacks. Without shoes to match, Herman had painted his brown shoes black and the polish reeked so strongly that people edged away from them in the theater. Sara could hardly miss the odor, but she simply giggled adoringly. She was already so in awe of Herman’s wit and sophistication that she could hardly wait to get to work the following morning to write Herman’s name at the top of her list of suitors on the bathroom wall and cross off the rest.

Although they agreed to write, Herman enlisted in the Army Air Service a few weeks after they met and started flight training. He was too young to be drafted, but he wanted to fly airplanes. Unfortunately, the flight simulator made him throw up, so he switched to the Marines. The next time he saw Sara was six months later, when he stopped between trains on his way to basic training. Sara’s mother accompanied her to the station to chaperone their visit.

Private Mankiewicz, Altwied, Germany, 1919.

By the time Herman’s division landed in Brittany on November 3, the war was practically over, and when the Armistice was signed on November 11, they were en route to Germany. Because he spoke German, Herman and a friend named McCoy were sent ahead to assess conditions. He wrote his family that he and McCoy were not only the first Allied soldiers to enter Cologne (population 700,000), they were so far ahead of their division that they saw the German army in retreat and reviewed them in front of the Cathedral with Cardinal Hartman [archbishop of Cologne]. He had much more to tell them, he added, but, as he had already written in a separate letter addressed to Howard A. Mankiewicz (with instructions not to open until he returned): It would be both tedious and unpolitic to repeat the story here—I’ll have to save it for that glorious night when, the fire having been lighted, the last Creploch devoured and the bottle of Scotch dragged from its hiding place, I shall proceed to recount my travels. This sentimental feeling of mine for the dramatic accounts for my leaving out so much in my letters to you—-the censorship must account for the rest."

His unit settled in the southwestern area of Rhineland Pfalz, near France and Luxembourg, and on Christmas Eve, Herman and McCoy were sent to the local castle to ask the Prince of Wied for firewood. The prince was unavailable, but they did meet the princess, whose father was King William II of Württemberg. Some painter, I believe, ought to immortalize the scene: Herman J. Mankiewicz, leather neck, accompanied by the trusty McCoy, each with their full retinue of cooties [lice], trying in his patois German, to bum the daughter of a reigning monarch for a couple of sticks of wood. I am, by the way, getting to be an expert at Platt [idiomatic German]….

His German also enabled him to follow the local news, and he relayed what he thought would pass the censor. On January 1 he reported that the German mark was already falling, and the German debacle is more than complete … everything is falling to pieces…. the first act of Hoffmann, the new Kultur minister, was to abolish Religionsunterricht [religious instruction] in the schools…. Berlin is very unquiet, and I am afraid it is going to be in for a regular reign of terror very shortly. Verbum sapienti [enough said]—I have written to Aunt Anna out in Michigan. (He may have meant he was trying to contact Pop’s sister, Tante Anna, who lived in Berlin.)

He was rescued from the tedium by John Erskine, who hired him to teach English and journalism in Beaune, France, at the American Expeditionary Forces’ AEF University, a postwar educational program Erskine had developed with the YMCA. Anticipating the prospect of a million or so soldiers idly awaiting demobilization, the military had decided to offer them educational opportunities, and the courses ranged from art, agriculture, and law to English, journalism, and medicine (for premeds only—cadavers were deemed inadvisable after what the soldiers had been through). At its peak 380 teachers instructed soldiers whose education ranged from illiterate to postgraduate, and Herman sent Sara a photograph of the faculty, inscribing on the back, My other faculties will follow in due course. Some of the professors found the experience exhilarating. Herman was so unimpressed that he disparaged the entire program in The University in Khaki, in the January 1920 issue of the World Tomorrow, a pacifist monthly edited by socialist Norman Thomas, with contributors like theologian Reinhold Niebuhr and artist Rockwell Kent.

Noting that by the end of the term, the university was left with only half the students who had started, he added, It is only fair to those students who remained to say that they had absolutely no opportunity to leave. Private Mankiewicz had many criticisms, but he objected most vigorously to the university’s combination of universal military training and education. When the university’s president learned that some of the teachers had discussed issues like Prohibition and universal military service in class, he proclaimed, Discussions are not encouraged at military posts. The wise teacher will conduct his classes without discussion, an edict that so appalled the indefatigable debater and educator’s son that he condemned the university as a fraud and a farce.

Mostly, Herman focused on getting home and escaping war’s destruction.

I am now teaching a course in the short story to replace Corporal Herbert Davidson, who left here the other day for the States. HIS FOLKS GOT HIM THE DISCHARGE.… I cannot get myself to believe, when everyone else with even the slightest pretense to pull is going home, that you are doing all you can. Don’t take no for an answer. Go to Washington personally with [Judge Leopold] Prince. By this time you’ll know whether the Germans are going to sign peace—and if they don’t, little Herman is scheduled for another winter in the Rhineland. See Sam Koenig [Republican operative], see [Columbia Dean] Keppel, see everyone you know. If you learn that the Germans have not signed and that we are moving in, go to the New York Tribune, tell them that I resigned from their paper to enlist in the aviation corps, and that I want them to get me out. I have already written them to that effect. See F.P.A.—he will remember me.

He was homesick. Somehow, Mama, much as I miss you all, I think I miss you most. At all events, there is no doubt that I worry more about you than the rest of the family put together. Try to get a letter through to me. And let me know that you’re still playing bridge and winning cut glass and darning socks and wiping Joe’s nose and practicing at Perrogen and Kreploch for the day of my return.

Herman had not seen combat, but he had seen enough:

Erna’s line about the death of Freddy Gudebrod … has awakened in me a line of thought that sometimes clouds my mind whole weeks at a time. The futility, the sheer waste, of war is brought home best when one thinks of Freddy Gudebrod—I have known no one who loved life more than he did. And with Freddy barely decently buried, the Vultures and The Messiah are doing their damnedest so to arrange things at Paris [Versailles negotiations] that more Freddies should leave the life they love—and, as I see it, very likely even in our time. Not being either an officer or a war correspondent, I have had to satisfy my conversational desires with the common people of France and Germany, and it is wonderful to see how much of one mind they are. The fourteen points, disarmament, self-respect to each nation—they want nothing more. And all the time the conference awards Fiume to the Italians, Dantzig to the Poles, the Saare Basin to the French, disregards the fourteen points, and the peace treaty, as a French soldier told me last night, will be signed with the blood of the generations to come and not, as it should be, of the generation that is past.

But none of this, I know, is particularly new to you. As I gather from occasional articles of the New Republic and the Nation that I see, there is still a little—though a precious little—independent thought left in America. Perhaps it’s just as well that I am safely over here under iron-clad military discipline—I’d probably be in jail now if I were home, or at all events in deep disgrace with all the nice people. All the same, when I look at the outline of the Peace Treaty and then think of Freddy Gudebrod and Joyce Kilmer and Jeff Healy and Herb Buermeyer and the hundred others that I knew and of the millions of other Freddy