Best & worst of times: Thirty years for a stamp on a passport: Herbert Lom talks to Danny Danziger

I was born in Czechoslovakia, came to England as a refugee and worked for the BBC Czech and German section during the war. When the war was over I had one dream, and that was to become an actor. I took acting lessons, went to drama school and out of the blue was offered a seven-year contract with 20th Century Fox.

I was in seventh heaven.

I went to collect my visa at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, with its militant and aggressive eagle looking down from the roof.

The consular officer held my passport in his hand, and looked at me coldly.

'I've come to collect my visa,' I started to say - whereupon he threw it across the room.

'What does this mean?' I asked, absolutely stunned.

'Visa refused.'

If he hadn't been American, I could easily have seen him in Nazi uniform.

'Any reason given, could I know what this is all about?'

'Visa refused. That is all I can say.'

He rose, opened the door, and I marched out with my passport. In the outer office the girls all wanted my autograph, but I was in a bad mood, so I wouldn't accommodate them. That was the worst day of my life.

It meant only one thing at that time: I was suspected of being a Communist, or a sympathiser. Imagine the secret service of the powerful United States wasting its time on little Lom, who had never been a member of the Communist Party.

What a situation to be in] I had already sent my luggage to Hollywood, and said goodbye to my friends. I was going to the airport that very afternoon.

It was deeply humiliating.

People would ask: 'How come you're still here, Herbert?' or, 'When are you going?' And to placate my friends, I started inventing excuses why I hadn't left. 'Any day now,' I'd say. Or, 'Just a little holiday before I leave . . .'

For a while I lived in hope that a letter would arrive: 'Dear Mr Lom, owing to a clerical error we are now pleased to . . .' but it never came.

I had quite a few offers from film companies to go to the United States, and I felt I had to make excuses to them as well. One time, there was an offer to do a film with Frank Sinatra, and I pretended I had broken my leg.

Every year for the next 30 years I applied for a visa, and each time I was refused. Every year it felt like a dagger in my breast. All kinds of people intervened on my behalf: the director-general of the BBC vouched for my loyalty and wrote a long letter, the Foreign Secretary tried to help, but it was no good.

No reason was ever given why they were refusing me entry. I asked several times: could I not be interviewed so that you can find out what my views really are? But they wouldn't talk to anyone who had been refused a visa.

I didn't realise how undemocratic America had become in the McCarthy era until later, when I got to know other people who had difficulties getting in. Many people had to leave America, too, people like Sam Wanamaker, who hadn't been members of the Communist Party, but had left-wing ideas.

Some years into my ban, I got an invitation from Rodgers and Hammerstein: would I fly to New York to audition for the London production of The King and I, which was playing on Broadway with Yul Brynner? I had to send a cable back, which nearly broke my heart: 'I'm sorry, I have to refuse the part of the King of Siam, because I cannot go to America.' But I received a cable back, 'Why don't we meet in Canada?'

So Rodgers and Hammerstein flew to Canada, and we met in a hotel room. A piano was brought in and I sang the first line of the first verse: 'There are times I almost think I am not sure of what I absolutely know . . .' Oscar said, 'That's enough, Herbert, welcome aboard]'

That was, without doubt, the happiest day of my life. I had defeated the American blockade and got the leading part in a very successful musical.

Many years later, a letter arrived at my home in which I was invited to call upon the new man in charge of visas at the American Embassy. He was most apologetic about my history. He implied that he had no connection with his predecessor's policy and more or less said they were gangsters. He even said, 'We shall be honoured for you to come and visit the United States.'

I was very emotional entering America after trying for so many years. I remember on my first trip waiting for an announcement over the airport Tannoy, 'Would Herbert Lom step aside please, there's some trouble with his visa . . .' but that didn't happen.

A postscript to my tale is that shortly afterwards, I applied to go to Czechoslovakia, when my mother was seriously ill. I was refused a visa several times by the Czech authorities.

Again, no reason was given, but later on I heard they suspected me of being too sympathetic to the West, to the Americans. Persona non grata in two countries: even for an actor who's trained to take rejection, that's very difficult not to take personally.

A visa is just a piece of paper, a stamp on your passport . . . until you are refused one.

Herbert Lom stars in 'Son of Pink Panther', which is released on video at the end of September.

(Photograph omitted)