My biography begins, as a biography typically begins, at birth. To not run the risk of not being original, this took place on the island of Giava, in the Oriental Indies. In my bamboo cradle, surrounded by the rustling of palms, the dark brown hand of a Malay wet-nurse rocked me, from the breast of whom I would not distach myself until the age of two. After a marvelous period on this enchanted island, at six years of age, sun-tanned and speaking a strange hodge-podge of four languages, I arrived in Europe, where my life ran its course much less romantically in an all-girls boarding school. I managed to shorten this developmental period marrying when I was sixteen and a half years old. As the wife of actor Daghover, I lived in a small town dreaming of grandiose enterprises and events, until the day Fritz Lang arrived. From then on my tranquil life was to suddenly change. The series of events caught a fresh updraft of wind. Auditions, a contract, move to Berlin, effort, strain, doubt, hours of mistrust. After small parts in the beginning, grand artistic endeavours such as Der müde Tod and Caligari. Favorable reception on the part of the public and press, pursuit of work and extensive travels. (Lil Davoger in S. Laurent, Wir vom Film, 1928)