Josephine Baker's Last Dance

by Sherry Jones

  The tears that she had held back for so long gushed like waters from a breaking dam, pouring over her nose and into her open mouth as she wailed and shrieked cries from the underworld, giving voice at last to her baby’s own scream upon being ripped from her body so that Josephine could escape the fate that had befallen her mother, and her mother’s mother, and so many generations before. She’d had no doubt, at the time, that she was doing the right thing. God had promised her a crown, and she meant to claim it.

  Joining the crying women, she fell to her knees, filling the air with unearthly song, beseeching God’s mercy, begging him to reveal the meaning of that childhood vision. She’d lived only for herself for so many years, basking in adulation and praise, grasping for money, greedy for love—singing and dancing while, across the ocean, her people, the people of her race, suffered and died at the white man’s hand as was happening, now, to the Jews and Negroes in Europe. But look at what she had accomplished here, and what she was still doing.

  “What have you done for us?” the men had asked at the Red Cross Liberty Club for colored soldiers in Casablanca. Glaring at her like she was the enemy, when she’d dragged herself from her hospital bed to watch their victory parade through the streets and, with Jacques’s help, dressed to go down and greet them.

  But not all had appreciated her efforts. The applause had been scattered, the looks on faces disgruntled. Between performances, she milled through the crowd and heard why: these men had signed up to fight, but instead were made servants to the whites.

  “Colored soldiers went back home as heroes after the first world war,” said Ollie Stewart, a Negro journalist covering the war, sitting with her at a metal table between shows. “The whites won’t make that mistake this time. They aren’t letting Negroes fight. Only white soldiers are allowed to carry guns. Our people are digging trenches and driving trucks, hauling supplies and ammo. Hell, they weren’t going to let colored men enlist, at first. Afraid they’d come back thinking they’re equals.”

  “This can’t continue,” she said. “We’ve got to do something.”

  “You’re a powerful woman, but even you can’t change the United States military in the middle of a war.” The Negro troops had eyes enough to see what was going on, and she would hand them no favors by getting them all worked up now, he said. To survive, they needed to do as they were told and keep their mouths shut.

  And so Josephine tried to lift their spirits rather than stoke their anger—and to cheer herself, as well.

  “As for getting mad because of race prejudice, we’ll have plenty of time for that,” she said during the next show. “I will come back to the States and join you in the fight to break down segregation—but let’s win the war first.”

  “What do you care about us?” somebody shouted. “You got out a long time ago.”

  She couldn’t argue with the truth. She’d never stood up to racial prejudice, not in America, not in Vienna, not in Germany, not in Brazil. She had run away each time. She’d never fought back, not even for herself. But she hadn’t known, then, how strong she was.

  At the wall, her tears subsided. She rose and dried her face with her hands. God had a plan for her; he had shown her a crown. Whether she deserved it remained to be seen. Josephine took the pencil and paper from her pocket and inscribed her prayer, then tucked it into a crevice in the wall.

  Use me.

  As she walked away, her answer came, filling her mind like an explosion of quiet.

  God helps those who help themselves.

  CHAPTER 29

  1944, Paris

  She rode on a Liberty ship with the other members of the Women’s Auxiliary of the Free French Air Force, going home to Paris, the city having freed itself without the help of Americans or anyone else. She endured the excited talk of the war for as long as she could, the rumors of a city in tatters, torn apart in the battle. At last, she stepped out onto the deck to get away. Paris destroyed? It couldn’t be true.

  She pulled her little dog, Mitraillette, from under her overcoat, looking around to make sure all was clear, let it pee, rat-ta-tat, like a little machine gun, then scooped it up to nestle into her bosom while she thought of Paris.

  Would anyone remain from the life she’d known? Those who’d tolerated the Nazis would still be there, that snake Maurice Chevalier, for instance. He’d come to the clinic in Morocco but she’d refused him: he’d sung for the Nazis, even traveling to their camps. Mistinguett had kept up her old routine, too; she must be seventy by now, flashing those legs in the music halls where Nazis made up most of the audience and brazenly begging the crowd to send her coal and food like she couldn’t support herself on the loot she was pulling in.

  Josephine would have to face the traitors. They’d be the only ones left, the rest shipped off to camps and gassed or tortured, Jews and coloreds and—ten days before the liberation—three thousand members of the Resistance. How would the city look? Demolished, as some said? Bereft of charm, its artists and writers having fled to America, anyone with a heart gone? But all those patriots would still be there, those who had fought the Germans in the middle of the city, risking their lives with only sixty guns at first, big-hearted men and women who had shot and killed the Nazis and seized their weapons, taken their trucks and tanks, picked them off one by one, trained, as she had been trained, by shooting rats. They would be there.

  Maybe, reunited with those who’d stayed in the city of her heart, she’d feel less alone. Not like here, with no lover, no one to love her. Even Jacques, who loved her, had looked away from the sight of her scarred and puckered belly. Still, he’d done her the biggest favor of all by coming up with a solution to her problems. As she’d mourned the fact that she would never give birth, he’d made a suggestion: why not adopt?

  Now, on the ship, she considered the notion. Adoption could be costly, and raising a child more so. After all that time in the hospital and then entertaining the troops for free, she had almost no money left. She could still perform, but would anyone want to see her? Illness had taken a toll on her looks.

  But makeup and a bit of glitter could hide the ravages of illness and age. Playing to the soldiers had strengthened her body and her voice again. She was ready for a comeback. Perhaps she’d get back on at the Casino de Paris; if not, she could always go on tour and make records, maybe even another movie. And at the heart of everything she did, now, would be her new mission: to end racial prejudice.

  How would children fit into that plan?

  Children. She had to laugh at herself. Here she’d gone from adopting a single child to “children.” But hadn’t she always wanted a houseful? She closed her eyes to imagine it, all her precious little ones playing among the oaks at Le Beau Chêne, black and white and brown children all together, loving one another. And the whole world would see them and realize that prejudice isn’t something we’re born with, but something we learn.

  When she opened her eyes, they were full of tears. “Thank you, Lord, for this vision,” she whispered.

  She stood, wrapping her coat around Mitraillette. A crewman approached, kerchief ties flapping in the breeze. Holding the dog close, trying to keep it still, Josephine smiled as the sailor saluted her, sweet young thing, look at those ruddy cheeks. She tried to make eye contact, but he moved on, she just an old woman in his eyes, grinning like a fool. Mitraillette barked, and Josephine cried out to cover the sound, lifting a hand toward the melting moon, singing a few bars but he was gone, “ ‘J’ai deux amours, mon pay est Paris.’ ”

  She had two loves but only one had loved her back, and now she was on her way to win its heart again. And when—if—Paris embraced her again, then . . . No, it must embrace her, she must earn the money she needed, and when she was back on her feet, she would start the family she had always wanted, but better, for it wouldn’t be just for her but for the world.

  AND THEN THE ship reached the shore and the Women’s Auxiliary stood in formation as the crew lowered the gangplank. Joseph
ine could read excitement on the women’s faces, and curiosity, and apprehension, the same as she felt: each wondering, would anyone be there to greet her? As they began their descent, cheers arose, and “La Marseillaise” from a hired band, and confetti raining as, on the shore, they embraced one another.

  Josephine bade farewell to her dear friend Catherine before a handsome man swept the woman away and frenzy took over and everyone was running, running into someone’s arms. Someone jostled Josephine as she put Mitraillette on the ground and stood to look around, sobs and embraces and cries of joy bouncing off the metal ship as Josephine stood alone, looking around, a lump forming in her throat.

  Mitraillette yapped at her feet, anxious, and she bent to pick the poor thing up, but a hand was already there, scratching the dog’s ears, a hand wearing a gold ring with a V in diamonds. She looked up into the face of M. Henri Varna, her old friend from the Casino de Paris, whom she almost bowled over with kisses.

  “Welcome home, Sous-lieutenant Josephine,” he said, giving her his arm.

  “How wonderful of you to come,” she said. “I thought for a minute that I wouldn’t have anyone.”

  “Au contraire,” he said, and gestured toward the cordon established, he said, for security—all the Nazis had flown the country or been arrested, of course, but sympathizers remained—and she saw behind the rope a banner with her name in purple and a crowd holding their arms out to her, hundreds there with brilliant bouquets, young men and old men and children and women. Josephine’s eyes filled with tears.

  She saw Colette, now wizened and hunched, shadows in her eyes, the Nazis had left but she was still occupied. And M. Paul Derval of the Folies-Bergère with his wife! So many wonderful friends had come to see her, and behind them, cameras pointed like the eyes of gods and reporters strained against the rope with notepads and recorders, shouting out questions.

  Josephine posed and bantered, throwing off danger, throwing off treachery, throwing off death and illness, jutting her hip, forgetting that she was anything but a whole woman and one of courage who had earned her stripes with love for her country.

  A journalist asked her to sing “J’ai Deux Amours,” the band striking up their accompaniment. How could she have ever complained about having to sing it so many times? She loved this song, it was her song, her people wanted this from her and she would never again tire of giving it to them. Feeling the beloved caress of the cameras on her, she threw her arms open and laughed aloud. She had not been forgotten, not at all.

  SHE’D BARELY HAD time to settle in Paris again when the French government sent its request: Would she entertain the troops in France as she had done in Morocco? Hitler was retreating, but not completely routed, and her performances would boost morale. Josephine jumped at the chance. Then, because she would need musicians, she went to see the bandleader Jo Bouillon, and fell in love at first sight.

  What was it about him that drew her? The soft, feminine mouth, the winsome eyes? He could barely meet her gaze, he was shy with women, she had heard, which was maybe why he’d never married. That was a shame: such a gentle man would be good with children.

  “I don’t know how I can do it,” he said when she invited him to tour with her. “My orchestra is under contract to perform a radio broadcast every day for the rest of the year.”

  “Contracts were made to be broken,” she said. “This is for our boys on the front lines.”

  But the French government was investigating him, suspecting him of being a Nazi sympathizer, he told her, which she already knew. He’d performed on Radio-Paris after the Germans had taken over, accepting Hitler’s dirty money.

  “Why did you do it?” she asked.

  “One must eat,” he said, and now she knew why he couldn’t meet her gaze. “Not everyone has the temperament for fighting.”

  Those soft hands, that slender frame, that smooth skin like white silk. Not a callus on his body, she’d bet. He’d melt like candy under her tongue.

  “That’s all the better reason why you ought to join me,” she said. “Entertaining our troops will make everyone forgive you.”

  “All right, I will consider it. How much?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How much are you offering?”

  “You’ll get paid the same as I’m making. Zero.”

  He frowned. “I am not a superstar, with unlimited funds.”

  “If you are found guilty of conspiring with the Germans, you’ll have even less than you have now.” His reputation ruined, he wouldn’t work in France again for a long time. “I can help you—but only if you accept my terms.”

  “And my orchestra? How will I convince these musicians to work for nothing? They will go elsewhere. What is a bandleader with no band?”

  Josephine placed her hand on his; he did not pull away. “You will think of something, Jo. You must. It is time you did your duty for France.”

  But Jo could not convince his musicians to tour for free, so Josephine scraped together some cash by pawning her jewels and taking out a mortgage on her Paris apartment, and off they went.

  Working with Jo was a dream. He and his pianist knew just how to back her, and he adjusted expertly to her last-minute changes, shifting the music to her moods; cueing up songs on request from the audience; even adding his own touches, sounding notes when she tossed candy from her basket, playing a vamp tune when she sat in someone’s lap—as in the old days, she sought out the homely men: they were the most grateful and no one got jealous.

  After each show, she and the band would have supper and drinks on her dime, Josephine sitting beside Jo. And when everyone else had gone to bed, they’d sit up for hours talking about everything under the sun—except her Rainbow Tribe dream of adoption, no sense scaring him off! One night, she asked the question that had been nagging at her: Why hadn’t he made a pass at her, they way other men did?

  “Maybe you don’t find me attractive?” she said, knowing full well she’d lost some of her allure.

  He closed his eyes. Josephine waited, relishing the chance to gaze openly at his beautiful face, that alabaster skin, those high cheekbones, the fine patrician nose. He opened his eyes and saw her admiring him, but instead of smiling, he lowered his gaze, looking like a child caught in some shameful act. Josephine reached for his hand, ready to reassure him—it’s okay—but nothing could have prepared her for what he would say next.

  “You are very attractive, Josephine.” Not even for a second did his eyes meet hers. “More so than any woman I have ever met. Your beauty, your pure heart, even your terrible temper”—at last, he looked at her, and grinned—“they are all irresistible. So why, you wonder, don’t I make love to you? The answer, I fear, is not simple.” He placed his hands over his face, then rubbed his eyes as if awakening after a long sleep.

  “You’re married,” she blurted, and burst into tears. “Why do I always fall for the married ones? What is wrong with me, that I can’t love a man who can love me back?”

  “No, mon amie, I have never been married. Until now, I have never met a woman who interested me.” Josephine perked up: he wanted her. She would have her heart’s desires—this man who looked like a dream, the bundle of money they would earn touring together when the war had ended, the castle full of children they would adopt from all over the world, her Rainbow Tribe.

  “—why, you may ask, but I cannot explain it. Ever since I can remember, I have been attracted to them. I thought I was a homosexual, but now that I have these feelings for you, I am confused—”

  “Wait,” she said. “What did you say? You’re a what?”

  “I am a man,” he said. “A man who likes other men.”

  Alarm bells went off in her head, but she decided to ignore them. What men did together she did not care to imagine, but it couldn’t be as good as what she offered. Of course, if he had never been with a woman, how could he know? One night with her, and he’d be cured of that malady. But look at his beseeching face, hunger for her approval written all o
ver. First she needed to set his mind at ease.

  “Is that all?” She gave a carefree laugh. “If you want to shock me, you’ll have to work harder. There’s nothing that I haven’t seen, and very little that I haven’t done.”

  He sighed, and his body relaxed. “Then you are not upset.”

  “Au contraire, I love a challenge.” She leaned toward him and kissed him softly on the lips. His response was as sweet as she’d imagined. Her body humming, she led him up the stairs to her room.

  ACT V

  * * *

  La Grande Finale

  CHAPTER 30

  1951, Havana

  She’d agreed to meet the club owner Ned Schuyler at his hotel, but insisted they sit on the veranda in spite of the cool weather. He was offering her eight thousand dollars a week to perform in his establishment, the most posh, most sophisticated club in Miami, “and that’s saying a lot”—but she knew she had to set the tone right off the bat.

  “I’ll never step foot inside this place again until they change their policies,” she said, shivering in the breeze. When she’d tried to check in here last week, the clerk—a colored man!—had turned her away, saying “whites only” while his eyes darted around like he was sending secret signals to somebody. Of course this exclusive Havana club was owned by, and operated for, white Americans, who, Josephine knew, still hadn’t gotten over their fear of catching something nasty from Negroes.

  “I understand that Miami is a segregated city,” she said.

  His eyebrows lifted as though he’d never considered the matter. “Miami is very cosmopolitan.”

  But were Negroes allowed in his club?

  “Of course. You will be on the floor.”