Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

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Get BROWNATONE today. 84 That Others May Live (Continued from page 37) No one apparently could believe the desperation of his need. It was too fantastic. Finally he faced his defeat and the folly of further pretense. With his wife and child he moved into a succession of homes, each more modest than the last. Then apartments, then rooms by the day. Never once did he seek to make a touch, for all the untold sums he had so gladly given to others in need in his better days. His pride and selfrespect forbade it. He wanted only work. Eventually he admitted the futility of that and stopped asking. No one saw him. No one heard from him. After a while no one missed him from the scene. He stood before the wide white door of the Motion Picture Relief Fund one day last week, this man who had had so much and been the envy of millions. The coat on his shoulders was shabby and thin. Wads of newspapers were stuffed in the gaping holes in the soles of his shoes. In his eyes was stark fear and ringing in his ears was the angry warning of a cheap boarding-house landlady. Pay up or get out! Slowly he opened the door, approached the girl at the desk. "I don't want anything for myself," he said in a choked voice, "but I've got a wife and a kid. They haven't had anything but stale bread and canned milk for three days. For God's sake, can you help me get them something to eat!" The girl at the desk smiled . . . NOW come and meet the girl who is listed as Case No. 579 on the Relief Fund rolls, a strangely blank name for one of her youth and beauty. Her given name doesn't matter anyhow for few of you would recognize it. She was just one of hundreds of young and beautiful girls earning a precarious living doing extra work. She was the sole support of an aged mother, however, which made her small job of filling in the backgrounds of pictures of vital importance to her. For a time all went well with them. A day's work here and a day's there kept them in necessities and a few of the comforts of life. Then suddenly came a production slump; fewer pictures were being made and fewer still in which extras were needed. Slowly her little hoard of savings dwindled. Then came another blow; the mother fell acutely ill. Doctors had to be called and prescriptions filled. Finally a special brace was needed for the mother's withering arm. No money was left to buy it. Grimly the girl took the one way out; she pawned her wardrobe of smart hats, coats and dresses, the tools with which she worked. Ironically the tide turned within a week. Central Casting called four times to offer studio work. One call after the other had to be refused. She had neither clothes nor the precious $12 to get them from the pawnshop. The fifth call sent her to the Fund door. The next Sunday Ronald Colman and Joan Crawford gave up their personal plans for the week-end to appear on the Gulf-Screen Guild show, and a hairdresser at Paramount gave 50 cents of her weekly check because of Case No. 579 and others who may some day find themselves in her shoes. And then there is Case No. 671 — a studio cutter, one of those men whose important and difficult job it is to edit the daily "rushes" of film sequences and patch them together into the completed story. He was married and the father of three children, with a fourth due in a few months. A nagging cough sent him at last to a doctor. The verdict was tuberculosis. If he went at once to a sanitarium, he was assured, he had every chance of complete recovery. "You must stay away from home if you value the lives of your wife and children," he was told. He borrowed to the hilt on his life insurance and went away. Six months later, swamped with debts and frantic about the future, he returned to work before his weakened body was ready. In a few weeks the dread cough was back. Once more he heard the same orders. This time there was no insurance to fall back upon; this, time, too, there was an extra mouth to be fed. "We've got one last chance," he told his wife. "The Relief Fund. If I can't get help there. . . ." Script writers don't make all the happy endings in Hollywood. Though no one ever hears about them, the Fund writes them too. In these stories just told, the once famous star was given immediate financial help and a studio pressured into giving him steady work; the extra girl's wardrobe was retrieved from the pawn shop and temporary sustenance given to tide her and her mother over for a few weeks until extra work picked up; and the cutter and his family were established with a nurse in a little house on the desert where all bills will be paid until he is again completely well. QRDINARY charity when it is la^-/ beled and dished out as such is a bitter dose indeed for a man to swallow. Too often it shatters the last vestige of his self-respect and spirit; too often it defeats its very aim — his reestablishment in his just place in the world. The helping hand of the Fund is not considered charity, either by those who give or those who receive. It is, rather, hard-luck insurance to which each recipient has contributed according to his means; therefore he is receiving of his own. There is no name over the wide white door to blazon to the world that he who enters it is asking help of his fellow man; only the address, 6902 Santa Monica Boulevard, greets the eye. Inside is a pleasant reception room, not unlike a prosperous doctor's office. Off that is a snug library with comfortable chairs, booklined shelves, and bright reading lamps. Down a long hallway are small consultation rooms where a man and the Fund can talk over his problems in private. Necessary questions, sometimes painful questions, must be asked to determine his needs, but those questions are neither prying nor loaded with implied reproach; sprinkled between them are compliments on his work in the past, encouraging proph RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR