 Radio's own show, Behind the Mic. With a switch of a dial, radio brings you tragedy, comedy, entertainment, information, education, the whole world at your command. But there are stories behind radio, stories behind your favorite programs and favorite personalities, and radio people you never hear of. Stories as amusing, dramatic, and interesting as any make-believe stories you hear on the air. And that's what we give you, the human interests, the glamour, the tragedy, the comedy, and information that are behind the mic. Now presenting a man whose name has been a symbol of the best in radio since the beginning of broadcasting, Graham McNamay. Thank you, Gilbert Mack, and good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This afternoon behind the mic first presents a return engagement of Mimic Arthur Boran, who tells you just how he does his impersonations of famous people. We present the sound effect of the week. Then you will hear the story behind the weird music on the Inner Sanctum program, as told by organist Lou White and your host Raymond. Next you will hear an oddity in radio about orchestra leader Fred Fadkin. We salute a program you love, one that featured the voice of delightful Hollis Shaw. We present Mike Scoops, and finally a dramatic story behind the escape of an actress from occupied France, the thrilling story as told by herself. Last week we had as a guest on behind the mic one of radio's ace mimics, Arthur Boran. We thought that you might be interested in hearing for probably the first time exactly how a radio impersonator goes about developing his impersonations. And here's Arthur Boran, featured on NBC's Vaudeville Theater of the Air, to tell us all about it. Arthur? Hello, Graham. Arthur, do you find it difficult to do imitations? No, Graham. Frankly, I find myself imitating anything I'm impressed with, a noise, a person. I once even heard a beautiful move from a cow. You wouldn't believe this, but I went around moving for weeks until one day a farmer came over and wanted to milk me. Well, seriously, Arthur, exactly how do you go about learning how to impersonate somebody? I do it, Graham, by analyzing the voice of the person I'm trying to imitate. The first thing I do is to get the voice level. What do you mean, get a voice level? Well, take Eddie Cantor if I'm going to imitate Cantor. The first thing I do is gradually raise my voice and experiment like this. Congratulate me, Jimmy. It's my wedding anniversary. To celebrate the occasion, I'm wearing the suit I got married in. You see, at the finish, I raise my voice to the level of Cantor's voice. That's just about it. Yeah, I was glad you got up there. It's sort of a tenor voice, isn't it? That's right. Then the next thing I do is to study the peculiarities of the voice inflections and the vocal characteristics and intonations. For instance, take Eddie Cantor again. I'll take Cantor's salary. You can take Eddie. And speaking of my salary, Graham, I'll have you understand my income goes into six figures. Uh, do you mean in income tax? No, in Iter and my five daughters. Ha-ha! Ha-ha! You see, Cantor's Peppy's voice frequently rises and falls. And he appears to draw a lot of his words from the front of his mouth to the back of his throat, like this. How-re- Well, suppose you analyze somebody else's voice for us. Uh, how about Lionel Barrymore? Well, let us say I want to imitate Lionel Barrymore doing a scene from a picture in which he's an attorney pleading with the governor of the state to pardon a condemned young man. And he talks like this. Come on, Tom. And sign that pardon. Give that mother back a son and give this country back our good citizen. Now I find that Lionel's voice has a great deal of light and shade to it. High and low register. Notice. Now I know that Judge found him guilty, Tom. But he's only a figurehead. It was an accident, I tell you! He also has a certain rhythm in a speech. About three dots and a dash like this. Dee-dee-dee-da. Dee-dee-dee-da. For example, those people out there wanna know what you were going to do. You're right about one thing. Barrymore's voice does go up and down a lot, doesn't it? Yes, in direct contrast to, let us say, Charles Boyer, whose voice has no range, is baritone in quality, and has no light and shade at all. In fact, it's almost a monotone like this. Gentlemen, you don't know who I am. Well, I don't blame you, but someday you shall hear of me. Well, how could you analyze a voice like Charles Lawton's? Well, Lawton's voice is one of tenor quality. It has about an octave and a half range, Graham. There's a slight British accent. He has a definite punch attack at the beginning of a sentence, fading away from a shout to that of practically a whisper like this. Thus come here, done a semen's a semen, and also the lowest form of animal life. I'll have the sailor day! Well, his voice has a lot of light and shade in it too, hasn't it? Yes, quite in contrast to another character who also speaks with a slight accent, and whose voice is a mild monotone. Peter Lawry is Mr. Motel. Charlie, don't get excited, Charlie. We'll solve the mystery. There is an old Charlie's proverb which says, No disguise can long conceal the truth. Well, Arthur, what do you think is your best imitation? Well, I think my best imitation is one I'm going to do right now. What is it, Arthur? An imitation of the invisible man. I shall now disappear. Well, wait a minute. Before you do, let me say thank you, Arthur Baran, for a grand story behind the mimic. The sound effect of the week from time to time behind the mic presents some unusual sound effect. One of the most unusual programs in radio, certainly so far as sound effects are concerned, is Superman, which deals with the adventures of a man to whom practically nothing is impossible. He flies through space without wings. He's so strong he breaks down walls with his bare fist. In short, he's terrific. One of the typical effects used on the Superman program is the sound of Superman breaking down a stone wall with his two bare hands. Here's the sound. That was done by the sound effect department, building up a miniature wall out of cobblestones, then banging a baseball bat against two or three of times, and finally pushing over the stones and breaking down the wall and at the same time, playing a record of the crash. That's not only super, that's Hooper Dooper. As listened to the Inner Sanctum series of chillers, he's aware of the importance of the music in creating moods that makes its audiences' hair stand on end. So next, we present two guests, Lou White, the organist who writes and plays the music for the Inner Sanctum program and your host, Raymond, actor Raymond Edward Johnson, who will explain Lou's weird effects. Lou White and your host, Raymond. Good afternoon, my stout-hearted friends of the Inner Sanctum. This is Raymond, your host, once more. You may come in now if you dare. Before we begin, a word to those of you who don't frighten easily. It'll be no disgrace if, before we are finished, you'll find yourself trembling against your will. That's how an Inner Sanctum program sometimes opens. It's cheerful, isn't it? Well, Lou, suppose you and Raymond show us the different ways in which music is used on the Inner Sanctum program to create mood. Well, you see, the music is sometimes used as background. For example, if Boris Karloff in a jocular mood has just caught up one or two of his friends giving us a slice of life in the raw and if he's bothered by his conscience because he hasn't sliced up three or four more, why then you might play what he calls the dream theme. Like this. Not mad. Look at me. I can talk and listen and walk and sing just as you do. Let me out. Let me out. I'm not mad you're here. Listen to me. No one has ever paid me any attention. I've been ignored, a failure, but I showed them. I committed the perfect crime. Do you hear? I committed the perfect crime. I'm not crazy. So that's a dream theme, eh? That sounds more like a nightmare, doesn't it, Graham? How did you do that, Lou? Tell us. Well, I laid one hand flat on several keys of the organ like this. At the same time, the other hand runs up and down the keyboard in a tally-different key like this. Put them both together and they spell nut-mother. But murder! I see. It's playing music in two different keys that gives a peculiar quality to your music. Suppose you give us some other examples of the way music is used to create mood in your program. Well, in a dramatization of Poe's Mary Tale, the fall of the House of Usher, there was one droll scene in which a woman thought to be dead, had been placed in a coffin in the family vault. Awaking, she rises from the coffin and dressed in her shroud, walks up a flight of stairs to her brother's bedroom, intending to kill him. You see, he had buried her. Hmm. Heh heh heh. Eh, that's amusing, eh? You see, her walking up the flight of steps was portrayed by the organ like this. Oh, that's very remarkable. Suppose you explain just how you achieved that effect. Well, uh, my right hand played eerie chords like this. My left hand pressed keys that simulated the howl of the wind like this. And then I pressed the bass pedals of the organ to make footsteps like this. In other words, your music was used instead of a mechanical sound effect. There certainly seems to be considerable difference between intersanctum music and other kinds. Uh, but I think the best way to demonstrate the difference between ordinary music and intersanctum music is by first playing a well-known tune in the regular way and then playing it in an intersanctum style. Played in a sanctum style, it sounds like this. For a glimpse into the inner sanctum. A little true behind-the-mic stories that help make radio sometimes amusing, sometimes exasperating, but always interesting to the people in it. This week's oddity, an actual experience of Fred Fredkin, orchestra leader on the adventures of the thin man and many other programs. A few years ago, Fred, who is a most delightful violinist, was concertmeister of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Every couple of weeks, Fred would drive in from Boston to spend a day or so in New York. And one week, Fred parked his car in a garage in the 90s. That morning, with just about enough time left to drive back to Boston in time for a concert which was to be broadcast, Fred walked over to the garage. Say, could you get my car, please? I'm in a hurry. Where is your car, buddy? It's parked on the fifth floor. The fifth floor? I'm awful sorry, but the freight elevator broke down. We can't take any cars down. But I've got to get my car. Look, I've got to get back to Boston in time for a big concert. I'm with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. We're going to broadcast. There'll be a whole orchestra full of musicians without the concertmaster. I've got to get that car. Well, buddy, I'll see what I can do about it. This being an emergency, the manager of the garage called the elevator company. And they sent an emergency crew of 10 men who then hand cranked the elevator to lift it up to the fifth floor. Yeah, buddy. It certainly gave us a half hour of trouble, but, well, we're up here. I never saw 10 guys work so hard in all my life to pull up an elevator. Well, I wouldn't have done that for anybody, not even you if you hadn't told me you were in such a tough jam. Well, I want to thank you very much. Well, you know, if I missed that concert... Wait a second. Let's see, where's my car? Better make it snappy, bud, if you're going to make that concert. Let's see now. It isn't here. I've been robbed. Robbed? Let's have a look at your garage tickets, buddy. Yeah. Hey, here it is. Great jumping, horse flesh. No wonder your car isn't here. Your garage is two blocks away. We in radio believe that radio has a tradition of which it can well be proud, a tradition of good programs that linger fondly in our memory. So each week, we bring you a star or a part of a program you used to hear, a program you loved. This afternoon, we salute the Alec Templeton program, which in 1939, at one time, featured the singing of lovely Hollis Shaw. Hollis, an ever-welcome guest, brings us a song she sang on that show. All the things you are, which she introduced on Broadway. The scenes of European broadcasting are some highly dramatic stories. Not only stories about the broadcast themselves, but about the people who supply news for these broadcasts. And here is Helen Hyatt, commentator on NBC's program, Today's News, who formerly broadcasts from France and Spain. She's going to tell you about such a person. Helen Hyatt, Helen, suppose you begin the story. Well, when I was broadcasting in Paris a year and a half ago, I used a number of stories about refugees who were arriving in the French capital, refugees from the war zone, because at that time, Paris wasn't yet under fire. I got a number of these human interest stories from a young Hungarian actress, Gita Sereini. She's only 20 years old. She'd already been a prize pupil at Max Reinhardt's Dramatic School in Vienna. During the war in Paris, she turned from dramatics and had been working for the Auxiliaire Social. That's an organization that took care of refugees. Gita had no nurses training at all, but she was taking care of children whose parents had been killed by machine guns simply because they flocked around her. Gita didn't leave France when the rest of us did, but stayed all winter, carrying for all these orphans in occupied France. But Gita, you go on from there. Well, for some time, I've been anxious to get out of occupied France. I was unable to control my tongue, and many times I told Nazi soldiers that I hated them and their cause. They always laughed at me, but eventually I knew I was going to get into trouble. As a Hungarian, I didn't think I would have any difficulty in getting out of the country, and I actually got an exit visa from the German Embassy. But when I got to the military authorities, these things were different. They made me come back several times, and finally, enough of this. Schwester, permission for you to leave has been unfortunately mailed out to your address in the country. To the Auxiliaire Social? Yeah. See, here's a list with your name crossed out in red, showing that your visa has been granted. I am very sorry to have caused you this inconvenience, but if you will go to the country, you... I spent several hundred francs for a railroad ticket from occupied France to Madrid, and I went back home and found the letter refusing the visa. Well, that really discouraged me. So I went back to Paris the same day to find out what had happened. When I got to the office of the military authorities... Hey, Schwester, what can I do for you? What can you do for me? You told me my visa had been mailed to my address in the country, and when I get there, I find permission has been refused. Schwester, did you really think that we would let you out of the country when we know that you're engaged to an Englishman? Well, how did you know that? You looked up your file in the French prefecture of police. I am sorry, but you cannot go. Well, that's what you think. I want you to know that I'm going anywhere. Anywhere? How? Well, I don't know yet, but I just want you to know that. So in case you catch me, you can't say I double-crossed you. Ha-ha-ha. Good luck, Schwester. But I do not think you will get across. Then what? Well, I knew there were certain organizations that helped people get across the demarcation line, and I made contact with them. One day, I found myself talking. Yes, mademoiselle? Well, I want to get across the border to unoccupied France. I'm anxious to go to America. Well, that is very difficult. It is very dangerous. Yes, I know that, but I'm willing to take a chance. Well, then it will cost you 20,000 francs. 20,000 francs? I haven't got 20,000 francs. I'll give you 2,000. 2,000? My dear girl, 15,000 would be the least we could possibly do it for. Look, I might be able to raise 4,000. Oh, not a shoe under 12. That is the very least it would cost. What happened then, Gita? Well, we finally settled for 7,000 francs. That's about $150 at the prevailing rate of exchange. For that, a man was to be provided who would guide me through the soldiers guarding the border between occupied and unoccupied France, which is separated by barbed wire fence. Well, accompanied by the guide, I took a train as near as we safely could to the point where we were going to try to cross. There we picked up another girl who also wanted to cross, and the three of us went on in a donkey cart. It was 10 o'clock on the clear moonlit night. We left the donkey cart outside a farmhouse 300 yards from a demarcation line and then started for the barbed wire. As we walked along, the guide gave him... These soldiers have police dogs. We must try to avoid them. What will we do? Suppose they find us. Well, then, just stand still. These dogs are trained not to bite unless you move. Very well. My, what a beautiful moonlit night. Yes, it is too bad. These soldiers will be able to see us much more easily in the moonlight. Look, there's the barbed wire fence. If we can only get over that without being seen. Oh, and the night is beautiful, Mrs. I don't believe anything could happen. Listen. These are the police dogs. Don't move. They'll find us. I will drive them away. I have a pocket full of stones. There. Let us run for that fence. They have the Hunderbäckerjacht. Fire! It was the soldiers shouting that we had chased the dogs away. Bullets flew all about us. A girl with us was shot in the shoulder. We climbed over the barbed wire and managed to lift her over. Once over the barbed wire, we, of course, wanted to hide. The Germans have the right to go 200 yards over the French side. There was nothing to hide behind except one or two trees. I knew as we stood there that they would find us. About a minute afterwards, two young soldiers came to their side of the barbed wire. I realized that the Edelweiss and their uniforms meant that they were Austrians. I came out quite into the open, walked up to them, and faced them across the barbed wire. I gave them a greeting used by Austrian peasants. Go, Scott. They just looked. And I said, well, I think we ought to talk a little together. Here's quite frankly what happened. I'm Hungarian, but I was born in Vienna. For 10 months now, I've been taking care of children, nursing them. I'm tired. I want to go to Free France for a rest, and I shall be back here in this very same spot in exactly two weeks' time. Will you let me through? But, uh, how about that other girl? Oh, she has a husband in Free France who wants to join him. You know that none of us can get authorizations to get there. And that man? Oh, he's my uncle. You can see from my face that I want to do nothing bad. Will you let us through? Uh, you will promise to be back in two weeks? Yes, I will. Hmm, so, Heil Hitler. And the guide and I took a bus, went to, uh, carried the girl to a bus 26 kilometers away, where she was to take, uh, where we were to take the nearest railroad. We walked from half past 12 to 6 in the morning, and both of us fainted when we got to the bus. The girl we carried seemed to be in much better physical condition than we. Well, from then on, it was a question of getting to America, which was difficult, but not nearly so exciting. And that's how I escaped from France. Well, what are you doing now, Gita? Well, I'm going to lecture for the school assembly service for junior colleges and high schools throughout the United States and Canada. And I would also like to be a radio actress over here. I was, as Helen said, a student in Europe with Max Reinhardt. And she said, darn good actress too, Graham, if you could see her. I believe she is. Well, here's wishing you the very best of luck in Radio Gita. And thank you, Gita Serrini and Helen Hyatt for a swell story. Next week, behind the mic shows you the important part, the telephone lines play in network broadcasting. We bring you more of the glamour, the comedy, and the tragedy that are found behind the mic. This is Graham McNamee speaking. Good afternoon all. Behind the Mic is written by Mort Lewis, original music composed by Ernie Watson, conducted by Zelle. This is the Blue Network of the National Broadcasting Company.