That night I listened to Clare Luce’s oracular preachments; of course the subject turned to religion (she had recently joined the Catholic Church), and in the mêlée of discussion I said: ‘One is not required to wear the imprint of Christianity on one’s forehead; it is manifest in both saint and sinner alike; the spirit of the Holy Ghost is in everything.’ That night we parted with a slight feeling of estrangement.
*
When Limelight was finished I had fewer qualms about its success than any other picture I had ever made. We had a private showing for our friends and everyone was enthusiastic. So we began thinking about leaving for Europe, for Oona was anxious to send the children to school there, away from the influence of Hollywood.
I had made an application for a re-entry permit three months previously but had received no reply. Nevertheless, I went about arranging my business affairs in preparation for leaving. My taxes had been filed and they had all been cleared. But when the Internal Revenue Service heard that I was leaving for Europe, they discovered I owed them more money. And now they concocted a sum that went into six figures, demanding I put up $2,000,000, which was ten times more than they were claiming. My instinct told me to put up nothing and to insist on the case coming to court immediately. This brought about a quick settlement for a very nominal sum. Now that they had no further claim, I again applied for a re-entry permit and waited for weeks, but without answer. So I sent a letter to Washington, notifying them that if they did not wish to give me a re-entry permit I intended leaving in any case.
A week later I received a telephone call from the Immigration Department saying that they would like to ask me a few more questions. Could they come to the house?
‘By all means,’ I answered.
Three men and a woman arrived, the woman carrying a shorthand typewriter. The others carried small square brief-cases-obviously containing tape-recording machines. The head interrogator was a tall lean man of about forty, handsome and astute. I was aware that they were four to one and I should have had my lawyer present, but I had nothing to hide.
I led them into the sun-porch and the woman brought out her shorthand typewriter and placed it on a small table. The others sat on a settee, their tape-recording cases before them. The interrogator brought out a dossier a foot high, which he placed neatly on the table beside him. I sat opposite him. Then he began looking over his dossier page by page.
‘Is Charles Chaplin your real name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Some people say your name is –’(here he mentioned a very foreign name) ‘and that you are from Galicia.’
‘No. My name is Charles Chaplin, the same as my father, and I was born in London, England.’
‘You say you’ve never been a Communist?’
‘Never. I have never joined a political organization in my life.’
‘You made a speech in which you said “comrades” – what did you mean by that?’
‘Exactly that. Look it up in the dictionary. The Communists have no priority on that word.’
He continued this line of questioning, then suddenly asked: ‘Have you ever committed adultery?’
‘Listen,’ I answered, ‘if you’re looking for a technicality to keep me out of the country, tell me and I’ll arrange my affairs accordingly, because I don’t wish to stay persona non grata anywhere.’
‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘this is a question on every re-entry permit.’
‘What is the definition of “adultery”?’ I asked.
We both looked it up in the dictionary. ‘Let’s say “fornication with another man’s wife”,’ he said.
I deliberated a moment. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ I said.
‘If this country were invaded, would you fight for it?’
‘Of course. I love this country – this is my home, I’ve lived here for forty years,’ I answered.
‘But you have never become a citizen.’
‘There’s no law against that. However, I pay my taxes here.’
‘But why do you follow the Party line?’
‘If you’ll tell me what the Party line is, I’ll tell you whether I follow it or not.’
A pause followed and I broke in: ‘Do you know how I got into all this trouble?’
He shook his head.
‘By obliging your Government.’
He raised his brow in surprise.
‘Your Ambassador to Russia, Mr Joseph Davies, was to speak in San Francisco on behalf of Russian war relief, but at the last moment was taken with an attack of laryngitis; and a high representative of your Government asked me if I would oblige and speak in his place and I’ve had my knuckles rapped ever since.’
I was interrogated for three hours. A week later they telephoned again and asked if I would go down to the Immigration Office. My lawyer insisted on going with me, ‘in case they want to ask any further questions,’ he said.
When we arrived I could not have been greeted more cordially. The head of the Immigration Department, a kindly middle-aged man, spoke almost consolingly: ‘I’m sorry we’ve delayed you, Mr Chaplin. But now that we have established a branch of the Immigration Department in Los Angeles, we shall act more quickly without having applications going to and from Washington. There is just another question, Mr Chaplin – how long will you be away?’
‘Not more than six months,’ I answered. ‘We’re just going on a holiday.’
‘Otherwise, if you’re away longer, you must ask for an extension.’ He placed a document on the table, then left the room. Quickly my lawyer looked at it. ‘That’s it!’ said he. ‘That’s the permit!’
The man returned with a pen. ‘Will you sign here, Mr Chaplin? And of course you will have to get your sailing papers.’
After I had signed it, he patted me affectionately on the back. ‘Here is your permit. I hope you have a very nice holiday, Charlie – and hurry back home!’
It was Saturday, and we
