To Each His Own—John Garfield

Sometimes I think that the best part of my life was my childhood. It was a difficult period but a most colorful one. I was wild and full of a certain kind of excitement. My youth had elements of struggle and conflict in it, but out of those conflicts came a certain philosophy.

I was a rebellious child. My father, a cantor, was a very religious man who tried to get me to believe in orthodox religion as much as he did. Though I am sentimental about many of the traditions and songs in my childhood, and though they still evoke many nostalgic memories, I don’t believe in all the rituals which meant so much to my father.

Even the event which is supposed to be so outstanding in a small boy’s life—the Bar Mitzvah or confirmation—is remembered by me chiefly as the occasion when I needed a white shirt, and had to borrow one from a neighbor. A boy’s Bar Mitzvah has religious significance, but I was too young to be impressed by that then.

In time, however, I did grope my way toward a religion in which I myself could believe.

I conceive of God as being a Supreme Force. I think we hear the voice of God in the thunder and the lightning; we see Him in the majesty of the mountains, in the oceans, in the mathematical precision with which the planets move, and in the hearts of men who on the surface seem ordinary. John Hersey wrote of such a man in “The Wall.” This man, Berson, seemed to have no specific talent for living or dying, but when put in a particular situation, he faced that situation with great adaptability.

Hersey said in this book that people are only strong when they have faith in themselves as people—and that is part of my philosophy, too.

I place my faith in certain kinds of people whom I admire and respect a great deal. Mostly they’re ordinary people—not necessarily either poor or rich—and it makes no difference whether or not they are talented. But whatever their lot, they face the reality of their particular circumstances with courage. They value honesty.

Some of them go to a place of worship regularly. Others never go. But there is a divine spark of courage in them all. None of them ever tries to escape from reality.

Incidentally, I believe that a man can be deeply religious without ever attending a church or synagogue. I admire and respect those who go to church regularly, if in their daily lives they try to practice the things they accept spiritually when they attend church. But I have no respect at all for anyone who attends a place of worship every week, and then on weekdays violates every tenet of the religion in which he pretends to believe.

If, when they’re old enough to think about it, my son, David, who is seven, or my daughter, Julie, who is five, were ever to ask me, “Daddy, what’s God?” I would say, “Many people have different ideas about Him. But I think God is essentially a way of living—a philosophy of, life. In the final analysis, God is within yourself.”

When I attend a synagogue, I do so mostly because of the beauty of the music and because, in a sense, religion does have something to do with traditions. I collect records of the great cantorial songs for sentimental reasons. The cornerstone of my philosophy is a belief in the Golden Rule—“Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.”

Sometimes, because I have tried to follow this rule quite literally, I have been considered peculiar.

For instance, a friend of mine, a playwright, asked me to come backstage to see him the night of the opening of one of his plays. When I came back with a mutual friend, the playwright asked me what I thought of his play. It was not good, and I told him so. Our mutual friend kept kicking me in the legs while I explained why the play didn’t appeal to me.

When we got outside, he said, “Didn’t you realize you hurt his feelings?”

“What was I supposed to do—lie to him to make him feel better?” I countered.

I had literally followed the Golden Rule. In a similar situation, I would expect honesty from my friends. Sometimes the truth hurts, but in the end it is less brutal than an untruth; for if you have been fed a lot of pleasant lies, the truth, when you learn it, hurts all the more.

I remember that in 1940 I appeared in a play called Heavenly Express. I was greatly infatuated with it, and thought I gave a pretty exciting performance. Backstage after the opening, Robbie, my wife, told me the truth. “Julie,” she said, “your acting smelled up the place.”

I was hurt momentarily, but out of that experience I learned that my wife would always level with me. Obviously she followed the Golden Rule, for she wants similar honesty from me.

The philosophy of the Golden Rule is true, regardless of whether there is an after-life or not. It would be presumptuous on my part to say whether or not there is such a thing as immortality. Who knows? I find it hard to believe in heaven or hell as definite, specific places to which we will go after death. I do believe, however, that the spirits of all good people do survive, among those who knew and loved them.

I think that prayer is helpful to some people, especially in a crisis. Most people are apt to pray when the going gets rough.

I remember during the war when I was going overseas with another entertainer. We had to fly low, and there was danger of submarines hitting at us. This fellow was a Catholic, and he took out his rosary to pray. “Throw a prayer in for me, too, kid,” I said half-jestingly. He did.

One of the engines conked out in the middle of the Atlantic. Turning to one of the soldiers in the plane, I asked, “What happens if the plane conks out completely?”

“You don’t have to worry,” he said. “If that happens, we’ll drown in a minute and a half.”

I began to sweat. The Catholic entertainer with me began to pray.

When the whole experience was over, I thought, “Maybe this guy’s prayers really brought us through.”

In Naples when they were bombing us, he took out his rosary and prayed. Again he prayed for me, too. Death came very close to both of us that day. And I have often thought, “Perhaps I’m here today, because while I was merely fearful, he prayed.”

I shall not try to force my religion upon my children. When other children are going to Sunday school and they want to go, I’ll send them to whatever school they choose that will give them a reasonable interpretation of God. I hope that they will discover some form of religious belief which helps them. I believe that the religion which one finds for oneself is far deeper-rooted than any which is thrust upon one.

I would no more try to force my son to follow my religious beliefs than I would try to force him to become an actor because I’m one. In fact, at Christmas time, I took him to a small church in New York to see the Christmas High Mass. To him it was a beautiful spectacle. When he asked me questions about it, I said, “Well, that’s the way one group of people believe. That’s the way they pray. That’s why this country is interesting and great—because everybody can pray in his own way. There are other people in other groups who go to other kinds of churches and to synagogues to pray in their way. No one stops them. If ever the time comes when someone tries to stop people from praying in the way they want to in this country, then we’ll really be in trouble.”

I’m not sure if David understood everything I was saying, but these are the things I’ll keep telling him as he grows up. And I believe he will be one of many Americans who grows up knowing that it is all right for him to believe whatever he does believe, and to pray and worship as he sees fit. I hope, too, that if David ever has to face a great crisis, he will find enough faith in himself as a person to meet it; and enough faith in his heritage as an American to fight for his right to freedom of worship, if anyone ever tries to take it from him.

THE END

—BY JOHN GARFIELD

(John Garfield can be seen in He Ran All The Way, co-starring Shelley Winters.)

 

It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE MAY 1951