I stormed out of the office. I felt violated. The indignity of what was happening was lacerating.
I got no sleep that night. I tossed and turned and finally came to a decision. At nine o'clock in the morning, I went back into Marvin Schenck's office.
"I quit," I said. "You can tear up my contract. I don't want to work at this studio anymore." I started toward the door.
"Wait a minute. Don't be hasty. I talked to New York this morning. They said if you'll sign a statement that you're not a communist and have never been a member of the Communist Party, this whole thing will be forgotten." He handed me a piece of paper. "Will you sign this?"
I looked at it and started to calm down. "Yes," I said, "because I'm not a communist and I've never been a communist."
It was a humiliating experience, but nothing compared to what so many innocent people went through during that time.
I will never forget the dozens of talented friends of mine who would never work in Hollywood again.
In February of 1948, the Academy Award nominations were announced. I was one of five nominees, for writing the original screenplay of The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer. I started to receive congratulations from my fellow workers, my agent, and friends, but I knew something they did not know: I had no chance of winning the Oscar.
The pictures I was up against were extremely popular. They included Chaplin's Monsieur Verdoux, A Double Life, Body and Soul, and the powerful foreign picture Shoeshine. Just being a nominee was honor enough. I wondered which one of them would win.
I got a call from Dona Holloway, congratulating me on my nomination. Dona and I had become good friends. We often went to the theater together, or a concert, and she was always interesting company.
The morning of the Oscars, Dona telephoned. She had recently left William Morris and had gone to Columbia Studios as Harry Cohn's personal assistant, and I felt that Cohn was lucky to have her.
"Getting ready to go to the Oscars?" Dona asked.
"I'm not going."
She sounded shocked. "What are you talking about?"
"Dona, I don't have a chance of winning. Why should I sit there and be embarrassed?"
"If everyone felt the way you do," she said, "there wouldn't be anyone there to receive an Oscar. You have to go. What do you say?"
I thought about it. Why not be a good sport and applaud the winner? "Will you go with me?"
"You bet I will. I want to see you up on that stage."
The Twentieth Annual Academy Awards were held at the Shrine Auditorium. The awards were not televised then, but they were carried by two hundred ABC radio stations and the Armed Forces Radio Network. The auditorium was packed. Dona and I took our seats.
"Are you nervous?" Dona asked.
The answer was no. This was not my evening. This evening belonged to one of the other writers who would get an Oscar. I was a spectator. I had no reason to be nervous.
The ceremonies began. The winners began stepping up to the stage to receive their Oscars and I sat back, relaxed, enjoying it.
Finally, they came to the award for best original screenplay. George Murphy, an actor who had starred in many movie musicals, announced, "The nominees are . . . Abraham Polonsky, for Body and Soul . . . Ruth Gordon and Garson Kanin, A Double Life . . . Sidney Sheldon, The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer . . . Charles Chaplin, Monsieur Verdoux . . . and Sergio Amidei, Adolfo Franci, Cesare Giulio Viola, and Cesare Zavattini for Shoeshine.
George Murphy opened the envelope. "And the winner is . . . Sidney Sheldon, for The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer!"
I sat frozen in my seat. Any nominee with half a brain would have prepared a just-in-case speech. I had prepared nothing. Nothing.
George Murphy called my name again, "Sidney Sheldon."
Dona was prodding me. "Get up there!"
I got up in a daze and stumbled toward the stage, while the audience applauded. I walked up the steps and George Murphy shook my hand.
"Congratulations!"
"Thanks," I managed.
George Murphy said, "Mr. Sheldon, in the interests of science and posterity, would you mind telling us where you got this original idea?"
How could I not have prepared something? Anything?
I was staring at him. "Er - well - when I was back in New York, they had a lot of - you know - bobby-soxers around, and watching them gave me the idea that there might be a picture in it. So, I - I put it together."
I could not believe the asininity of what I was saying. I felt like a complete fool. I finally pulled myself together long enough to thank the cast and Irving Reis. I thought about Dore Schary and whether I should mention his name. He had behaved disgracefully and I was angry with him. On the other hand, he had co-produced the movie.
". . . and Dore Schary," I added. I accepted my Oscar and stumbled off the stage.
When I got back to my seat, Dona said, "That's so wonderful. How do you feel?"
How did I feel? I felt more depressed than I had ever felt in my life. I felt as though I had stolen something from people who deserved it more than I did. I felt like a phony.
The awards went on, but from that moment, what was happening on the stage became a blur. Ronald Colman was holding an Oscar and talking about A Double Life. Loretta Young was thanking everyone for The Farmer's Daughter. Everything seemed to go on forever. I could not wait to get out of there. On what should have been the happiest night of my life, I was suicidal. I have to see a psychiatrist, I thought. Something is wrong with me.
The psychiatrist's name was Dr. Judd Marmer. He had been recommended to me by friends who had consulted him. I knew that he had many patients in show business.