Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1962)

THE NIGHT I WAS GRABBED BY THE POUCE By Dolores Hart I was walking along Eaton Place slowly, peering at the charming little London shops, when I felt I was being followed. I wasn't sure. It was just a feeling. Having been in London several weeks working on the movie “Lisa," I knew the neighborhood quite well. My flat was just around the corner, on Eaton Square, but I’d forgotten my key. Since the maid was due to arrive in half an hour, I thought I’d stroll around and wait for her to let me in with her key. I was looking for a pharmacy when I glanced in a window and saw the reflection of an approaching bobby (policeman). “Well," I said to myself, “I'm certainly glad it’s a bobby,” and I sighed with relief. Then the bobby’s figure seemed to disappear and I thought I saw another figure lurking at the other corner. The feeling that I was being followed enveloped me, and I became frightened. I saw a pharmacy and hurried toward it. It was closed! Suddenly I felt trapped! As I turned to flee, strong arms grasped me and held me tightly! As I struggled to free myself, I turned and saw, to my complete surprise, that I’d been grabbed by two bobbies. “Why are you prowling?" one of them asked gruffly. I protested, "But I'm not prowling. I'm just walking.” “Don’t you know there's a law against loitering?" Was this some silly game, I wondered to myself. “I didn’t think I was loitering,” I answered aloud. “Then who are you waiting for?” he persisted angrily. “Nobody,” I said in a meek voice. “Well, what were you looking for?” “Oh, I’m just killing a half hour.” “All right, what is your name?” "I’m Dolores Hart. I’m an actress. An American movie actress." “You don’t look like one,” he said. Then I realized that I looked far from glamorous. I had hurried from the studio in my costume, an old trench coat and a beret, with traces of makeup still on me. I looked quite shabby, just as my role of a refugee from a concentration camp called for. “But I am an actress,” I insisted. “That’s what they all say when we arrest them.” They exchanged a knowing glance. Now I was really worried. “But I am! I’m making the movie ‘Lisa’ at the Ellstree Studios. I really am. You can telephone and check on it.” “Where do you live?” the questions quickly continued. “I have a flat on Eaton Square. Just around the corner.” “All right, Miss, show us your flat if it’s that close by.” I hesitated. “Well, I don't have the key. I lost it. I’m waiting for the maid to come and let me in with her key.” They eyed me dubiously and exchanged another glance. Do “I’m dressed this way,” I went on, “because these are the kind of clothes I wear for my role. I play a refugee, sick and despondent. See? Look at the number tattooed on my arm. It’s a number the Nazis tattooed on prisoners at Auschwitz. But I’m not a real refugee. I’m an actress. That’s why I can rub out this number. It's not real. It was put on by makeup men at the studio. Honestly it was." “May we see your passport?” one of them demanded. I looked through my purse. Thank heavens I had it with me. I showed it to them, holding my breath. “Dolores Hicks, also known as Dolores Hart,” he read out loud. Then he gave the passport back to me and said, “Well, perhaps you are an actress. You may go to your flat now . f . but we’ll have to report you at headquarters." “Report me? Does this mean I’ll have a record at the police station? Will this get into the newspapers? Will everyone find out? That would be terrible and unfair!” "No, this is not officially an arrest, but we are required to report it. Regulations, you know.” “You will report me for what,” I demanded to know. “We will report you as having been interrogated on suspicion of loitering for purposes of prostitution.” They each wrote something on their police pads, then left me. I was too shocked and stunned to even protest. Slowly, I walked back to the flat and waited for the maid. In my flat, I wept a little, I admit, and the maid comforted me with, “It’s no reflec! tion on you, Ma’am. The bobbies were j just doing their duty. There've been so many girls soliciting on the streets, they just had to question you.” But I kept thinking that it was all because I’m an actress. I could see how the bobbies reacted when I told them. I could see it in their eyes, in the looks they gave each other. They were thinking, “Oh, another one of thdse girls who claims she’s an actress,” and, “Prostitutes are always calling themselves actresses.” I felt sorry for myself, sorry for being in an occupation which, to many, was synonymous with a fast life, loose morals and easy virtue. A few weeks later, my mother arrived in London from the United States and we decided to go to Paris for the weekend. When we returned to London, we had to go through customs. Mother went through quickly, but when they came to me, they were very cautious. One customs officer studied my passport and said, “Dolores Hart ... the actress.” I didn’t like the way he said “actress.” He looked at my (Continued on page 75) THE DANGERS OF BEING AN ACTRESS First in a Series