[Juliana 02.0] Olympus Nights on the Square

by Vanda

  “What are you doing in this office?”

  “I had to find you. This guy. He knows about me. Maybe you. I don’t know.”

  “Who knows what? Stop moving around. Take a breath. Now, let’s sit down. That’s a good girl.” He sat opposite me. “Tell me.”

  I took another breath. “I was trying to help my friend, Marty Buchman. I haven’t introduced you to him yet. He was going great guns on TV and then they fired him for no reason. I thought. I had lunch today with a guy and, well, Marty might’ve been fired for being …” I whispered, “… gay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. The guy didn’t come out and say gay. He said, ‘communist.’ Or—did I say that? I don’t know. But we all know communist is code for, you know.”

  “Sometimes communist means communist.”

  “I’m not a communist!”

  “Who said you were? What are we talking about?”

  “Marty got fired from his TV job because he’s a communist.”

  “He is?”

  “No. Marty’s not a communist; he’s gay. But there was this guy—”

  “What guy?”

  “Pay attention.”

  “I’m trying.”

  Marty banged on my door. I pulled it open and threw my arms around his neck. “Oh, Marty, Marty. There’s this guy—”

  “What guy?”

  “FBI.”

  “Oh, God, what does the FBI want with me?’

  “They know about me.”

  “You? I thought this was about me.”

  “It is.” I paced, trying to collect my thoughts. “Only, he said he knew about me too.”

  “Knew what about you?” He became aware of Max standing next to my desk and smiled, “Well, hello, there.” He thrust his hand out. “Marty Buchman here.”

  Putting out his hand. “Max Harlington.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Harlington.”

  “Please. Max.”

  “Okay, Max. Al didn’t tell me you were so handsome.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you to say.”

  “Guys!” I stomped my feet. “I’m over here having a crisis.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Marty said. “What does finding out about you have to do with me not getting that job?”

  “You might have gotten caught up in the blacklisting that’s been going on,” Max said.

  “But I’m not a communist.”

  “Neither are a lot people who have been accused, but they may think you are.”

  “So it’s not ’cause I’m gay?”

  “It’s difficult to say.”

  “What do I do to make this come out all right?”

  “You come clean,” I told him. “That’s what the FBI guy said.”

  “Come clean? About what? He doesn’t want me to admit I’m gay, does he? That would ruin me.”

  “Instead of guessing,” Max said. “I’ll get my copy of Red Channels and see if you’re in it.”

  Max sprinted from the office and came back with the book. “Let’s see,” he said sitting down. His finger ran over the names as he turned the pages. “No. You’re not in here.”

  Marty expelled a gust of air. “Oh, God, I thought I was done for. Then why …?”

  “Let me call an actor friend who really is blacklisted, Salem Ludwig. See if he’s heard anything.”

  “I know Salem. A nice older guy. We worked together on a committee at Actor’s Equity to get TV to reconsider their rehearsal policy. For a ninety-minute show they expected us to rehearse only an hour and a half. In live theater, Equity allows for sixty hours. We didn’t expect that much—TV is fast—but we needed to rehearse.”

  “The FBI guy did mention ‘unionizing.’” I said.

  “Unionizing? We were trying to give them a good show.”

  “Let me make this call and see what Salem has to say.” Max dialed the number. “Hi Salem, Max Harlington. I wanted to know if you heard anything about Marty Buchman.” He told him the things the FBI guy had said. “Really? Thanks.” Max hung up and turned around to lean against my desk.

  “Well?” Marty asked.

  “Salem thinks you may be graylisted.”

  “What the hell is that?” Marty asked.

  “It means they don’t have enough on you to list your ‘sins’ in the book, but they have enough to be suspicious. Working with Equity could be part of it. So could the Actors Studio. Salem heard you got in. He sends congratulations.”

  “Terrific. I get this big honor and lose my job. You know, Marlon Brando’s in that.”

  “He can get away with a lot more than you can. The Actors Studio evolved out of the ideas of The Group Theatre in the thirties, very liberal, some think communist, which, by the way, is not illegal in this country. The right to think your own thoughts and have your own ideas is a first amendment and, I think, God-given right.”

  “That’s what Leon, Barney’s brother said,” I told them. “That HUAC had no right to exist because it was policing people’s thoughts and beliefs. But now, it’s getting even worse.”

  “Yes. And according to Salem, lots of Actors Studio’s members are blacklisted. You’re lucky you’re only graylisted. Salem told me graylisting is kind of a whispering campaign. One sponsor tells another to watch out for you.”

  “But I didn’t do anything. If the FBI guy already knows about my work at Equity and The Actors Studio, what can I come clean about so I can work in TV?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Max said.

  “But none of this has to do with him being gay?” I asked.

  “It’s hard to say. I’d be careful with places where cops are likely to be on the prowl. Stay away from subway bathrooms. Don’t go home with anyone you don’t know.”

  “I know you,” Marty said with a wink.

  “This is serious, young man. If they hang a charge of moral perversion on you, your life as you know it is over.”

  “You mean, I’d have to sell shoes like my father?”

  “If you could get that.”

  Chapter 50

  December 1952

  AFTER IT FIRST happened, Marty wrote to all the stations and some of the sponsors he knew telling them he hated communism and would never be a communist, but no one responded. Unable to get work, he sunk into a deep depression. It wasn’t the money. He still had the GI Bill while he was in school. He felt blocked from doing something he loved; punished without cause. He wondered what “come clean” meant, and how he could do it and be done with this. Occasionally, an FBI guy would follow him down the street or into the subway, always with the same question, “Are you ready to talk?”

  “Talk about what?” he’d ask them, and they’d answer, “You know.”

  He worried what would happen to his career after he graduated. Was he finished? Sometimes, when I’d go over to his apartment to drag him to school, I’d find him still in his pajamas. I was trying to get him some stage work, since Actor’s Equity had voted against supporting the black list, but Marty had no professional stage experience and Broadway attendance was down; fewer new shows were going up because audiences were staying home to watch TV. Attendance at the Mt. Olympus and The Haven were being affected by The Box, too, and on especially bad nights, it scared me.

  To be close to the entertainment arena, Marty hung around The Haven when he wasn’t at school. He’d sit in the back and listen to the show. He got to know all the personnel, like the chefs and waiters, Bertha, the hatcheck girl, Scott. He even made a point of meeting Mabel Mercer when she was booked for one night. Some nights, after the last show, he’d camp out on my floor. I gave him the key to my office so he could come and go as he pleased.

  In December of ’52, I stomped the snow from my boots and entered The Haven carrying an armload of newspapers to be studied. I stepped over Marty, threw my papers onto my desk and wiggled out of my coat. As I was hanging my scarf on the coat rack, the phone rang. “Al Huffman, here. Yes? Yes! I have someone.”

  I kicked
Marty in the leg. He didn’t move.

  “Definitely good,” I said into the phone. I kicked Marty again. He still didn’t move. “You’re gonna love him. Can I call you back in two minutes? Don’t call anyone else. This guy’s terrific.”

  I hung up the phone and yelled, “Marty, are you dead?”

  He squirmed and rubbed his eyes. “Huh? Out drinking last night. Another FBI guy followed me.”

  “Well, I hope it was a straight bar. Get over to the Broadhurst. Now. You’ve got an audition for a part in Pal Joey. You’re a shoe-in.”

  He jumped to his feet. “What?”

  “They need someone right away to play the part of Louis, the tenor in today’s matinee. Just a small role. The guy who usually plays Louis and the understudies have the flu. This is your shot.”

  “A singing part?”

  “A few bars. Mostly chorus. It’s not stardom, but it’s a step or two up the ladder. I want to call the guy back and tell him you’ll be there in a half hour.”

  “Half-hour? Look at me. I’m a mess. I’m not prepared. Yes! Call him.”

  I made the call while I pulled a fresh toothbrush from one of my drawers. “Here. Never used.” I handed him my tooth powder. “Clean up in the Men’s Lounge. Max keeps fresh shirts in his other office. I’ll get you one.”

  “Max’s shirt? No kidding? You’re gonna let me wear …?”

  “Down, boy. He’s already taken. I’ll get you that shirt.”

  “I’m not warmed up,” he said, when I got back with the shirt.

  “Warm up on the subway. This is your chance to be on Broadway. Go charm the pants off Max Meth, the Musical Director.”

  “Yes!” He ran out of my office, then turned back. “I can do this, Al, can’t I?”

  “Yes! Don’t forget your tie.”

  “In my pocket. You won’t be sorry.” He ran to the Men’s Lounge.

  * * *

  “I got it! I got it!” Marty yelled into the phone. “They loved me and gave me a contract for the entire run. And besides Louis, I’m gonna be understudying a few other roles!” He cleared his thoat. “Uh, Al?” His voice got soft and humble. “Thanks for this.”

  “Sure.” I was moved by the depth of feeling in his voice.

  “I owe you a bouquet of daisies!” he sang out as he hung up.

  I sat down with a cup of tea and my newspapers, and glanced at the headline of the Daily News. “Ex-GI Becomes Blonde Beauty: Operations Transform Bronx Youth.” Another paper read, “Bronx Ex GI Becomes a Woman,” and another, “Dear Mum and Dad, Son Wrote, I’ve Now Become Your Daughter.”

  I grabbed at the papers, studying the headlines; some slipped to the floor. A man had been made into a woman! Shaking, I turned away so I could breathe, but I had to go back to it. It was like a car wreck I didn’t wanna see, but had to. I opened to the middle of the Times. Some woman columnist was complaining about the pedestrian traffic sign they put up on the corner of 42nd and Seventh. “We’ve never had this sign before,” she said, “and we don’t need it. Why should I listen to a sign telling me when to walk and when not to walk? Before long, they’ll have signs blinking ‘Don’t Walk’ at us from every corner, controlling our minds.”

  I flipped back toward the front, trying to find the page. I found it and read, “George Jorgensen, who served in the army at the end of World War II, went to Copenhagen, Denmark, where he took female hormones and then had a couple of operations to become a woman.” I looked up from my reading, my heart pounding. “It really is possible,” I breathed. I felt my face to be sure no beard had grown there.

  Max entered my office without knocking. Panicked, like I’d done something terribly wrong, I hurried to hide the Christine Jorgensen papers. In a dither, I threw them on my chair and sat, crossing my legs.

  “Are you all right, Al?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You’re sitting on Christine Jorgensen’s face.”

  “Oh. Uh, well, well ...” I got up and put the newspapers on the desk.

  “That’s really something,” he said. “That they could do that.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess? I’d expect you to be amazed.”

  “Why?” I asked, defending myself. “Why should I be especially amazed?”

  “No reason. I’m amazed. Medical science sure has come a long way. I think you’ve been working too hard. You need an assistant. How about we offer Bertha the job?”

  I was glad we’d gotten off the topic of Christine Jorgensen. “Yes, to the assistant. No, to Bertha. I can put up with her as a hatcheck girl, but as an assistant? She’s always following me around like a lost puppy. Every time I turn around, there she is.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad quality in an assistant.”

  “She seems to be a nice girl, but there’s something—sometimes I catch her sweeping the rug outside my office right after the cleaners have vacuumed.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t a clue. When I ask her why, she says she wants to make me comfortable. But that doesn’t make me comfortable at all. And sometimes she leaves a box of chocolates on my desk when there’s no special occasion. And she keeps dusting my desk when I’ve asked her not to. I couldn’t have her as my assistant. She’d drive me cuckoo. You hire someone. I’m hurrying over to Shirl and Mercy’s for a few minutes. Mercy has a new book she wants me to read.”

  * * *

  Mercy met me in the hallway outside their apartment. “This may not be a good time,” she said, looking back at her door.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Shirl doesn’t want this getting out, but … she was beat up today.”

  “Why? Who?” I hurried toward the door. “Is she hurt bad?”

  “Banged up some.” Mercy followed me to the door. “A few bad bruises, a little blood. She got away before they could do worse.”

  I leaned against the closed door. “Have you taken her to a doctor?”

  “What doctor will see Shirl without telling her she deserved to be beaten up? She wouldn’t go, and I didn’t have the heart to make her. I’m taking care of her myself.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Come in. She may not seem herself. She’s been getting emotional.”

  I followed Mercy into the apartment. “Shirl?” Mercy called softly. “I’ve brought someone to see you. Al.”

  I entered their parlor behind Mercy. “Why don’t you drink some of this tea,” Mercy urged, picking up the teacup from the table near Shirl.

  “No, Mercy. Please,” Shirl said, turning her head away from it. One eye had a black and blue mark that extended down her cheek.

  Mercy put the teacup back into its saucer. Shirl wore a long striped nightshirt. She leaned way back into the couch, breathing heavily, a magazine held loosely in her hands.

  “Shirl,” I whispered. “How are you?”

  “What are they doing to us, Al?” Shirl croaked out. She shook her head at the open magazine in her hands. “A genius at the piano. A genius.”

  I looked at Mercy for some clue to what Shirl was talking about.

  “You remember the colored male impersonator Shirl knew in the thirties? The jazz performer?” Mercy explained. “Gladys Bentley?”

  “I remember you telling me about her, Shirl. You created quite a picture for me. She wore a white tuxedo and a top hat and flirted with the girls in the audience, white, Negro, gay, straight. Who could forget someone like that?”

  A smile creased Shirl’s face. “The bravest woman I ever knew. Never afraid to be herself, no matter how many times they carted her off to their pokey. She dressed in men’s clothes wherever she went; not only for her act. Didn’t matter to her that wearing men’s clothes on the street was illegal; that was who Gladys was and she was going to let everyone know it. She’d been dressing masculine since she was a child. She even married a white woman in New Jersey. Big affair. I went. It was a legal marriage too. Not like what Mercy and I have.

  “I
married you with my heart,” Mercy said.

  “I know, dear, and that’s real enough for me, but Gladys had an honest-to-goodness real NYS marriage license.”

  “A license?” I asked. “How’s that possible?”

  “She passed as a man. The clerk didn’t question it. She just filled out the license herself. Lots of gays did that in Harlem back in the thirties. Gladys didn’t care who knew she was married to that white woman. She yelled it wherever she went. Do you have any idea what kind of courage that took?”

  “I think I do, Shirl.”

  “Well, look what they’ve done to her.” She shook the magazine and sat up straighter, wincing in pain. She read the title, “‘I’m a Woman Again.’ This trash is supposedly written by Gladys.”

  Shirl’s knuckles were caked with dried blood. “It says here she took female hormones to turn herself into a woman. Why would she think of doing such a thing? What did they do to her? Look at these pictures. Here she’s washing the dishes.” She held out the magazine for me to see. “That makes her a woman? She should have those hands playing a hot jazz piano. It says she got married to this guy,” she pointed to a photo of a Negro man. “What happened to the white woman in New Jersey? What happened to all that bravado and confidence? What happened to Gladys Bentley? Look! They’ve got her in a dress. What did they do to her? If they can do this to Gladys, what chance to do any of us have?”

  “The way I heard it, Shirl,” Mercy said, “they wouldn’t let her work in the clubs if she kept dressing like she used to. She’s gonna try doing her act in a dress. She has a sick mother to take care of, so … These are difficult times.”

  A few tears slid down Shirl’s face. “They’ve killed her. They’ve murdered her soul.”

  “Al, you better go,” Mercy said. “I’m going to try to put her to bed.”

  “Sure.” I backed up from the scene, shocked at seeing Shirl cry. I remembered Juliana had told me Shirl had been raped in the thirties. This was all too much for one person to go through. No! This was too much for all of us. They had to stop it! We had to make them stop it! We had to ... What?