by Maya Angelou
Single White men seldom physically threatened single Black men, saying “You know they will cut you.”
An ancient joke among Blacks told of a bigot who was chided by his friends for calling all Blacks “niggers.”
“But that’s what they are,” he announced.
“What do you call the minister of the venerable White Rock Baptist Church?”
The bigot answered, “A nigger.”
“And the president of the Black university?”
“A nigger.”
“And the award-winning scientist?” “A nigger,” was the reply.
“And that Black man standing over there watching us with a knife in his hand?” “Oh, I call him, ‘Sir.’”
Black American insouciance was the one missing element in West Africa. Courtesy and form, traditional dignity, respectful dismissal and history were the apparent ropes holding their society close and nearly impenetrable. But my people had been unable to guard against intrusions of any sort, so we had developed audacious defenses which lay just under the skin. At any moment they might seep through the pores and show themselves without regard to propriety, manners or even physical safety. I had missed those thrilling attitudes, without being aware of their absence.
Rehearsals went smoothly. The actors were unselfconscious and professional. An uninformed observer would have been flabbergasted at the difference between the rehearsal cast who moved with an easy grace through the staging and the same cast which burst onto the stage opening night.
Throughout practice each of us had concentrated on our lines and movements, noticing our colleagues for physical and spoken cues, but on the afternoon before opening, the usual excitement was heightened by Jay Flash Riley who lighted the tinder for a group explosion.
Jay, in his outlandish military costume, and wearing the caricatured mask of a White colonial soldier, popped his head in each dressing room and speaking in an exaggerated guttural accent said, “Remember Jesse Owens!” We all laughed, but we all remembered. In Germany, during the 1936 Olympics, the Black runner, Owens, representing the United States, had won four gold medals and shattered Adolf Hitler’s dictum that the Aryan race was superior. The German audience reportedly booed Owens, and Hitler refused to allow the winner to accept the medal from his hands.
There was no mention of Jay’s statement, but we left our dressing rooms determined to show the Germans that while we were only eight people, we were serious actors and angry Blacks, and we could call the entire Allied army back and put it onto the stage, and whip them one more time.
After numerous bravos and standing ovations, we attended a reception in the theatre’s modern gleaming lobby. The strain of opening night and my efforts to hold my own with those actors exhausted me, and I was tired to the point of perversity.
A blond, trim man with two women approached me and gave a neat little bow. “Madame Angelou, you are a great artist.” He told me his name was Dieter, and added that he was an architect. “I want to introduce my wife and mother. We would like to invite you to supper.”
He presented the women who complimented me in dainty English.
“It is our honor, Madame.”
“Our country is uplifted by your visit.”
They looked like three dolls from a porcelain collection.
“We would like you and any friends of yours to come to an apres-theatre club. There is a jazz orchestra.”
Irascibility prompted me. I said, “I am too tired tonight, but I’d love to come to your house tomorrow. I’ve never been in a German home.” Surprise at my request held their attention for brief seconds. Then the women looked at the man, who nodded. “That will be possible, Madame. We will prepare breakfast. I will pick you up here at 10:00 A.M. Please feel free to ask anyone you like.” He handed me his card and I shook hands with the women. The man kissed the air above my hand and saluted me with a discreet click of his heels.
“Until tomorrow, Madame.”
Roscoe had left the reception early, and I didn’t think any other actors would be amused to see strange Germans en famille. A young and very handsome Jewish man wearing a yarmulke was standing alone by a bar. I went to him and began a conversation. His name was Torvash, and he was an Israeli actor on tour, and had enjoyed our performance. I asked about Arik Lavy, a Sabra singer I had known years earlier in Tel Aviv. The actor knew him. He laughed easily and was pleasant to talk with. I relaxed and told him of my invitation, adding that I certainly was expected to bring along another Black from the cast. He looked at me sharply, “You’re not inviting me, I hope?”
That must have been my intention from the moment I saw his yarmulke, but I said nothing.
“To a German home? I do not mean to be rude, but why do you think they invited you?”
“They really asked me to a night club. They planned to make a grand entrance. When Black people are scarce, we’re in style.” His laugh was quick and pretty.
“Did you tell them you would ask me?”
“I hadn’t seen you then.”
He thought a minute. “I’ll come along. It should be interesting.”
We shared a drink, agreed on the time to meet and bade each other a good night.
I slept poorly, unable to shake the feeling that I had forced an invitation, then taken advantage of it. An act, not criminal, but not quite savory.
I awakened with the Fifty-first Psalm reciting itself in my head. “Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy loving kindness; according to the multitude of Thy tender mercies, blot out mine transgressions.”
As I prepared for the morning’s appointment, I assured myself that the situation could not possibly end negatively. We were after all, decades away from Germany’s evil days, and if my host, my escort and I weren’t good people, at least we were sophisticated.
I put on a bib of filigree gold and a grand bou bou of lace, whiter than ice, and went down to meet my host. He stood in the middle of the glass and chrome lobby talking to a child. The merry-go-round of people spinning near him did not draw his attention. The boy, a miniature color drawing of Dieter, and dressed like him in pressed pants, blue worsted jacket, white open-neck shirt and ascot, was admiring his surroundings. I didn’t really want to interrupt their conversation, but I said, “Good morning.”
“Oh, Madame Angelou.” He appeared pleased to see me.
“May I present my son, Hans?” The child, who was about ten, stiffened, said in heavily accented English, “How do you do?” bowed and clicked his little heels.
Oh Lord, I had lucked upon a right one. I did what any or most of my people do when they really have no alternative, I laughed.
“Madame Angelou, have you friends coming, too?”
“Well, not a friend exactly, but I met an Israeli actor last night and since we were both alone, I invited him to escort me to breakfast.” There was only a slight focusing of his eyes on me, which was followed by a gracious smile.
“Wonderful. I suppose you met Torvash. I saw him here last night. He is a very popular comedian-mime. He tours Europe each year and it’s nearly impossible to get tickets to his concerts. Oh, here he is now.”
Torvash arrived quickly as if spun off the eddy of people. We shook hands. The two men greeted each other. Little Hans bowed when he was introduced, and suddenly we were both forgotten. The two men swept into a German conversation. I imagined their words probing like dentists’ picks. Their eyes were darting, searching.
The boy and I followed the men to a car parked in the driveway, and when the back door was opened for us by a doorman I made no protest, although I expected to be offered a seat up front. After all, I was the invited guest, but the men claimed each other’s attention so thoroughly, small graces went begging.
They talked until Dieter stopped the car beside a large, very modern two-story house. We descended and walked on pavement among shaped shrubs and entered the house from the side door, and Hans rushed up the stairs.
Dieter shouted to his wife and led us downstai
rs, I sent Torvash a few suggestive looks, but he didn’t respond.
The basement was a huge dining room dominated by an oversize round table which was set with silver, napkins and glasses. When I looked away from the table, I saw full bouquets of cut flowers in crystal vases on small tables, in the empty and dust-free fireplace and in corners. A screened double door led to a rear garden.
Dieter’s wife was giving the room last minute domestic attention. She stopped to shake my hand and welcome me then stepped past me and extended her hand to Torvash. I watched her face tense then relax in less than a second, and we were given seats at the table. Dieter said he was going to bring beer, and his wife excused herself, saying she had to get to the kitchen.
I took advantage of our first moments alone. “Well, what do you think?”
Torvash shook his head sadly. “He was probably a Nazi. That’s what I think.”
We might have come from the same small southern town, or urban ghetto or East European village. I shook my head and clicked my tongue. He imitated the gesture and made a bitter face.
“Do you want to leave?” I was ready to walk out with him.
“No. We will see this to the end. I understand you asking me, I don’t understand why he asked you.” At that moment the entire family entered carrying trays of food.
Dieter set bottles of beer in the table’s center, his wife placed whole loaves of bread and large mounds of butter on a side buffet. Hans brought a tray of sausages and went back through the door bringing a roasted ham. Dieter’s mother-in-law came smiling, and set potato salad in front of Torvash.
“Good morning, this is for you.” She spoke in German, and Torvash stood to shake her hand. After I spoke to her she centered her concern on her Israeli guest. The night before she had appeared to be a contained, conservative, quiet, middle-aged German woman, but she bloomed for Torvash and couldn’t stop talking, and giggling, and flirting. She had lost a sense of her age and place.
Dieter interrupted.
“Mother.” He smiled, but spoke sternly and she arose, flushing, and left the table.
Dieter said to me, “You see, we didn’t know who your guest would be, but it’s no problem. We have made arrangements for him.”
Torvash said, “Sorry for any inconvenience.” Dieter said, “A guest in our home is no inconvenience.” His wife smiled and added, “I had salmon all ready.” She bobbed her head, “We have one more trip and then we can begin to eat.” Again the family trooped out of the room.
I said, “Torvash, you’ve made a conquest.”
He didn’t raise his eyes from the table. “Jews are for German women as Blacks are for nice White women in the States. They dream of us, the untouchables, and maybe we dream of them. But we are unsafe, except as toys.”
I had seen some White women in the United States flirt so outrageously with Black men in public that they reminded me of dogs in heat. But after rubbing against the men, rolling their eyes and licking their lips, if the Black man asked for dates and persisted, the women would not only refuse, but would become angry that the men were forgetting their manners. It was a cruel minuet danced between spike-heeled women and barefoot men.
The family returned bringing hard boiled eggs, salmon, pickles, mayonnaise, mustards and relish, and I ate without a blessing but with gusto. Dieter must have spoken sharply to his mother-in-law in the kichen, for she never said another word—just kept her eyes on the table, attacking the food angrily.
Between bites we engaged in nerve dulling small talk. I told the listeners where I was from, Torvash listed the cities on his tour, Dieter related in detail the incidents of his visits to the United States, and his wife smiled a lot. Hans and his grandmother ate.
A middle-aged couple came through the garden door and were introduced as neighbors who had been invited to join us for beer.
Their surprise when they were introduced made it obvious that they had expected to meet Die Negers, but not the Jew. Flushed, they sat near Dieter and spoke to me in good but halting English. After another inestimable spate of uninteresting conversation, I asked for a joke.
I said, “I collect jokes. I believe that if you know what a person eats, how and if he prays, how he loves and what makes him laugh, you can claim to understand him, at least a little. I’ll tell you a Black American story and you tell me a German one.” Immediately I began to recount a Brer Rabbit tale from my childhood which showed the hare defenseless and threatened. As always, in African and Afro-American folktales, the seemingly weak animal with the sharpest brain outwits its well-armed adversary. I left the listeners without a doubt that the vulnerable trickster represented my people and the heavily equipped opponent was the White race. The tale always drew agreeing laughter from Blacks, but the only response I got from that company was a few polite chuckles. We drank more beer and I prodded them for a story.
“Just so I can say I have really met Germans and heard their humor.”
The visitors and Dieter spoke to each other, obviously making suggestions which one or the other would reject. Dieter said, “Get Torvash to tell an Israeli joke. He must know millions. He comes from a people known for their black humor.” He smiled, “No pun intended.” Torvash spoke, looking directly at me. “I do know a story. It’s not an Israeli one, nor is it, strictly speaking, a German story, but rather German and Jewish. If that’s all right?” The air tightened in the room and there was a barely audible gasp from Dieter’s mother-in-law.
I said, “Please tell it. I’m sure everyone wants to hear it.”
When I looked at Dieter and his neighbors I knew how wrong I was.
Their faces were stricken with white surprise, but Dieter recovered. He said, “By all means. A German and Jewish story? Do tell it.”
Torvash leaned back in his chair and began in a soft voice.
“There was a Jewish man during World War II who had a sixth sense and would have premonitions whenever the Brown Shirts or SS troops were going to make a raid. He would leave the place moments before the soldiers would arrive. It was a gift he had.”
I scanned the faces at the table. They had turned mottled grey, like certain Italian marble, and their bodies were held stiffly, not unlike marble statuary.
Torvash continued smoothly as if telling a fairy tale to enchanted children. “The man had gone on like that for three years, but one day his talent deserted him and he was caught.”
It seemed that Torvash and I were the only people breathing air. The rest had their lips slightly parted, but there was no visible contracting of their nostrils or chests.
“And the soldiers took the Jew to an SS officer who began to interrogate him. The officer said, ‘I know you are the one who has been escaping us all these years. You think you are clever.’” Torvash had straightened up in his chair. His face was suddenly seamless and his eyes were like stones. He had become the Nazi officer. “‘I will see how clever you are. I shall ask you one question. If you answer correctly, I will let you immigrate. If you are wrong …’” The actor paused and looked at Dieter. “You know.”
I answered, surprising myself by saying, “I know. Go on.”
Torvash resumed his performance as the German. “One of my eyes is false. It was made for me by the world’s greatest false eye maker. It cost me a fortune. If you can look at my eyes and tell which one is false, you will be allowed to leave Germany.”
Then the actor’s shoulders slumped and pulled forward, his face lengthened and began to shake, his eyes opened in fear and his lips were suddenly loose. He was the terrified Jew in the clutch of fear.
“I know, sir, I know. I know because the false one looks so human.”
Torvash dropped the old man’s face as if it had been a mask and said, “My father, who survived, said that was a popular story in his concentration camp.”
It seemed to me that no one moved, or coughed, or even breathed. I know that the story had fallen from my ears, down into my chest, and I found it hard to fill my lungs.
; Dieter recovered first. “Yes, I have heard that one myself. Now,” he rose, “if I could have some help we will have dessert.”
He refused his neighbor’s offer to help clear the table. “No, just family. You stay and entertain our guests.” Dieter’s wife, her face free of emotion, began to remove plates and silverware with remarkable efficiency. In moments, Torvash, the neighbors and I were seated before a table which showed no evidence of ever having been used.
“I wish you had not told that story.” The neighbor’s voice was just above a whisper. His wife nodded, her mouth grim. “Yes, you see Dieter has a false eye, but you couldn’t know that.”
The family trooped noisily back to the table smiling and bringing fruit, bowls of whipped cream, tarts, cheeses and more beer. To my surprise they seemed at ease, as if in leaving the room for a few minutes they had obliterated their own awful history.
Dieter sat down and handed out dessert while his wife poured coffee into ornate, yet fragile cups.
We all murmured appreciation for the beautifully presented sweets and the abundance of the meal. I refused to examine Dieter’s eyes. When each plate was laden and the last coffee poured, Dieter leaned back into his chair and spoke, “We have a story. A German folktale.” The pronoun hinted at collusion, and I looked at Torvash who kept a placid face.
“This story is very old and most German children hear it before they reach their teens.”
Despite the obliqueness or childishness of a folk-tale, I knew it could be used to serve the teller’s end. Apprehension stirred on my neck and arms.
Dieter’s face was rosy with anticipation. “Ready? Shall I tell it?” Everyone, including Torvash, agreed. I settled back hoping to enjoy the story.
Dieter coughed and began, “Once a German worker was on his way to the factory. It was a bitter, cold morning, and the worker was hurrying along when he saw a small bird on the ground, too cold to move. The worker picked up the bird and felt a small heart beat. He held the bird cupped in his hands and breathed hard, blowing warm air on the little bird.”