Sunday, November 28, 1936
I’m on a schedule, torn between Anna and her English; the housework and the cooking; Dieter Lange and the canteen; Bernhardt, the band, and The Nest. Dieter Lange is gone very often now because they’re still expanding camps all over and planning new ones, so I’m in the canteen a lot, but there’s a prisoner, a Red named Baum, who’s taken over a lot of the work. I think Dieter Lange wants me there mainly to keep an eye on Baum, so he doesn’t mess up a good thing. It’s sort of funny. Dieter Lange doesn’t come to me nowhere near as often as he used to before Anna walked in on us. But we have made our peace, I think, so those times when Anna’s visiting or just plain out somewhere, we have fun. Nothing like before, but pleasant enough. He says he’s as much a prisoner as I am, because if he crosses Bernhardt, he’s in trouble. And he’s brought me records, a lot of Brunswick/Berlin, but he says they aren’t allowed to make as many as they did before. Some are from Paris and Amsterdam and Copenhagen. Can’t get any from Spain now because of the war down there. Drugs are hard to get, so we don’t have them often, but Dieter Lange seems to have connections. People like Goering never have any problems getting theirs, or fine big homes and cars. “Not much has changed,” Dieter Lange says. “I guess there’ll always be big shots. At least bigger than me.” But he has already done far better in the SS than he ever did before the Nazis took over. And he knows it; he just wants more. So does Anna. Too bad for Dieter Lange that she is smarter than he thought. Werner was right about the Winkelmanns’ house; they had to move because it never got finished.
Now the band rehearses Friday and Saturday afternoons, after which we eat and rest until we begin the first session. When the second set ends, it’s the long ride back, and it’s growing cold now. Sundays are out since word came down from Heinz Baldauf—SS and Gestapo, like Bernhardt—that there could be no swing music on Sunday. Rest and worship. That’s copasetic by me. Sunday is the only day I have mostly to myself.
Anna and Ursula Winklemann have become good friends. Anna visits Ursula often, or says she does. She’s a farmer’s daughter like Anna, only her father’s a rich farmer to hear her tell it. Big farm, I heard, with lots of people working for Frau Winkelmann’s father. Only thing Anna’s got over her friend is her English, which is not so bad now. She likes to show it off when Frau Winkelmann visits here. Thank you, Jesus, that’s not often. Anna stays with the magazines from America and England; books are too much trouble and anyway, the ones around here are old Tom Swift and Rover Boys books. It’s funny watching them, their chairs pulled together at the kitchen table, and Anna reading: “Ja—yes—‘the Cherman leater, Herr Adolph Hitler, continues to urge rapid’—schnell, Cleef, yes? ‘hex-span-sion’—Ausdehnung, Cleef, ja? ‘of the Cherman air corps … Kink Edward de eight is a weakling’—Schwachling—Cleef, yes? ‘mit Volley Seempson … Bruno Hauptmann vill go to de electric share—’ elektrisher stuhl, ja, Cleef?” It’s easier to read for her: “Heavy fighting in Spain with the rebels preparing to go on the offensive.” It’s something to see, Anna’s big butt and Frau Winklemann’s high behind, jiggling in the chairs and sometimes rubbing against each other while they read, drink coffee, and eat cake.
Tues. Dec. 30, 1936
Back to Christmas doings. The Nest was decorated for Christmas—Weihnachten—and it was Christmas Eve. So we played a lot of singing songs as well as the jumps and drags. We drank maybe a bit more than we should have and Franz got so happy, looked like he was trying to put holes in his drums. Fritz tried to pluck his cello like it was a bass, and on “King Porter Stomp” (“La Musique du Roi”) everybody took a solo at the same time, like New Orleans, and came back home on schedule. We hadn’t tried that before and maybe if we’d been completely sober we wouldn’t have. But everybody else in the place seemed to be half high, so it didn’t matter.
Christmas morning, before I got up, Dieter Lange came down to my room with a package. He and Anna were going to visit her parents for the day. Everybody goes to be with someone on Christmas. He said, “I’ve taken advantage of you, and that you know, Cleef. But you’ve managed well for a prisoner at Dachau, too. I told you how that would be, but you’ve done better than I thought. Here’s a package that will surprise you, I think, and maybe you won’t think so badly of me after you open it. Listen: I thought this was all some kind of wonderful game and I would make money and be a little prominent and after a while find a way to leave it. I never thought you’d be around this long. That would have been sad for me, but good for you, and I’m not such a pure shit as to not want something good for you sometimes. Anyway, here. And there’s a bottle of Napoleon brandy to drink while you go through the package. Merry Christmas.” He kissed me quickly and went back up the stairs.
This was getting to be too much. The man was going through some kind of change, or maybe it was that quiet pressure Bernhardt put on him just by knowing about us. I couldn’t wait until they left the house after Anna fixed breakfast. Once in a blue moon she did that, and she knew I’d had a helluva Christmas Eve. When they left, I got up, dressed, washed in that itty-bitty sink in the cellar (sometimes when I had to piss late at night I went there, too, like you sometimes have to go in a bidet when you can’t make it to the toilet in the hall), and went to the bathroom upstairs.
I wasn’t in a hurry to open Dieter Lange’s present. Anna’s was a couple of pairs of socks and some handkerchiefs. I knew hers wasn’t as important as Dieter Lange’s. So I took my time. Played the piano, with his present sitting right there on top. I poked through their room and the closets, his office and other rooms where so many boxes of papers were stored. I found several writing tablets and took a couple for myself. By the time I got tired of snooping and playing, it was the middle of the afternoon. Outside it was already starting to get dark and snow flurries were falling. I started the pork roast that was for my dinner and also for when they came back, and I opened the brandy and then Dieter Lange’s present. The box was filled with papers, documents, and envelopes addressed to me with letters in them. They’d all been opened. I began to tremble because I knew this stuff was going to tell me once and for all that I was in Dachau forever. I knew it. But I started reading the papers. The first one:
Secret State Police
Secret State Police Office
Berlin, sw II / April 3, 1933
SA III B H.NR. 3003
PROTECTIVE CUSTODY ORDER
Christian name and surname:
Cliford Peperidge
Date and place of birth:
June 6, 1900, USA
Occupation:
musician
Status:
single
Nationality:
American
Religion:
Protestant
Race:
Neger
Domicile:
Friedrichstrasse, 18
Is to be taken into protective custody.
Reason: Police evidence shows that his criminally indecent activities constitute a danger to the existence and security of state and people. Because of his previous activities it is feared that when released he would continue his criminally indecent activities. Custody is indeterminate.
Attached was a snapshot of me with a sign that read:
K-L Dachau
1933
3003
All I recalled about that day was being afraid and shaking and going wherever I was pushed, doing whatever I was told. And Werner. It seemed like a thousand years ago. There was another document. The same document, I thought, when I scanned it, but there was a difference under “Reason”:
Police evidence shows that his criminal behavior constitutes a danger to the existence of state and people. Because of his previous criminal activities it is feared that when released he would continue his illegal criminal endeavors. Custody is indeterminate.
The second one carried the same date as the first. I figured that Dieter Lange had substituted the second for the first so he wouldn’t be suspected of bei
ng a queer, too. Nifty. Was nifty before Anna walked in, before Bernhardt got his nose into the wind. Well.
I pulled out a letter. The envelope was plain, with no return address. But it was from the U.S., Boston:
Dear Clifford,
I’m sorry for what’s happened. I heard from Count Walther von Hausberger about your predicament. I’d hoped by now that you’d be out and even back home. I did the best I could before I had to resign and leave the Service. I did try very hard to get help for you. In fact, I paid a lawyer to get you out, but I couldn’t stay. I had to take a train to Paris the next day. I couldn’t get into specific details with the lawyer, but he assured me that he understood. I’ve felt badly about this. But I am still trying to effect your release. I hope it hasn’t gone too badly for you and that, when this catches up with you, it will find you safe in Paris, Amsterdam, or Copenhagen. In the meantime, here is a draft for $500 U.S. to make things somewhat easier for you wherever you are, if that’s at all possible.
Fondest regards,
Malcolm
The letter was dated June 15, 1935. There was no draft in the envelope, either. I took another drink and got up to put on the potatoes and cabbage and turnips. In Germany there’s never a shortage of this shit. I staggered, but just then I didn’t give a damn if Hitler walked in. As bad as they been fucking with me, I’d rip his goddamn nuts off, fucking with The Cliff this way. I cried while I peeled the potatoes and scraped the turnips. I basted the roast. Then I went back to Dieter Lange’s Christmas present.
Dear Monsieur Pepperidge:
It is shameful what is happening to an artist of your eminent stature. I have heard from a Count Walther von Hausberger about your situation. We have spoken to the American ambassador here and he hopes to advise the American ambassador in Berlin about you. However, we have been told that you are subject to German law. If we can be of further assistance, please let us know at once.
Sincerely,
François Moreau
Pathe Polydor, Paris
Moreau’s letter was dated August 2, 1935. I opened the letter with all the Spanish stamps dated July 28, 1935, and read:
Dear Señor Pepperidge:
This is truly a great misfortune, sir. One hears many distressing things from Germany these days. I’ve written to a friend at Brunswick Berlin to see if anything can be done even though it is our understanding that foreigners living there fall under the laws of Germany, just as would be the case here. But we have advised the American ambassador here of your predicament. We have written to Mr. Wooding in New York, the editor of the new jazz magazine, Downbeat, and Mr. James C. Petrillo, president of Local 802, also in New York.
This letter was from Carlos Bustamente of Parlaphone Madrid. The brandy was half gone. I dragged myself to the kitchen to lower the heat under the food, stir it. I wondered what Gitzig was doing today. Probably nonstop meat-beating. I returned to the package. I was numb not so much from the brandy as from the letters and documents, another of which I picked up to read. It was a form letter and had been sent, it looked like, in response to inquiries about me. There were several of them under different dates:
Dachau Concentration Camp / Political Department
In answer to your inquiry, we wish to inform you that the Protective Custody prisoner Clifferd Pepridge is in good health. He is unable to send you a message because the intrigues of a few criminal scoundrels have made it necessary to impose a post ban. It is not known here when he will be released. Each case will be dealt with by the Bavarian Police in Munich.
CAMP COMMANDANT
Why had Dieter Lange given me this stuff? Because way down deep he really cared something about me and wanted me to know what I hadn’t known? I couldn’t think of any other reason. I was crying pretty good when I got to the last letter. There was no envelope, so I couldn’t figure out where it had come from.
Dear Cliff,
A goofy drunk German came into the place here where I work. Drank like sixty and listened, pounded his feet, and clapped like a screwball. When we were finished he came up and said he wanted to talk to me about Cliff Pepperidge! I thought you were back home, Jackson, and there he was telling me you’re in Dachau! I just finished reading a book by a joker escaped from there name of Hans Beimler. What you doing in there, man? Place sounds like a bitch. The drunk gave me an address that wasn’t the prison. Said he’d see you got this letter. What’s he? A friend? A cop? Somebody they just let loose? Anyway, can you write and tell me what’s going on? Maybe we can get in touch with somebody who can help. Can we visit—I got Johnny Mitchell and Ted Fields with me—and bring you whatever you need? Let us know. I hear things are jam-up back home. The Savoy’s supposed to be jumping in New York, and the Renny, too. But times are hard, they tell me. Don’t know how Mr. Wooding does business with all the competition. He’s with Moe Gale on the Upstate New York circuit. Billie Holiday’s got a band: Bunny Berigan, Artie Shaw, Joe Bushkin, Dick McDonough, Pete Peterson and Cozy Cole (!). Let me know if you got a phonograph. I’ll send you some sides. Let me know everything, Cliff, whatever it is, so we can scheme up on how to help. I know we wasn’t aces, but anybody winds up where you are needs some help, Jack, and that’s a fack won’t break back. Oh, yeah, Freddie Johnson’s in Paris. Your buddy there said it might be possible to buy you out. How much? Write quick.
The letter was from Willy Lewis in Amsterdam. I turned off the food. I wasn’t hungry any more. I finished the brandy. Goddamn! If I hadn’t popped Dieter Lange … eleven months ago … because he was teasing me so hard, I could have been in touch with Willy by now. Maybe that sonofabitch Dieter Lange … Aw, shit. If I hadn’t popped him, things would be the goddamn same.
Wednesday, Jan. 13, 1937
It was last Thursday, the 7th, when I woke up listening to my thoughts and the conversations in my head. This was when I was sick. I heard myself from a long way away, in a place I didn’t know. I could see myself seeing: in the night sky, fat speeding clouds, red, black, and white, tumbled through each other, the way clouds come running in from the Gulf over New Orleans. The clouds gave off a strange, flickering, gray-pink light that made dogs I couldn’t see bark and snarl. I thought I heard a voice like thunder crackle and snap with the naming of numbers and names through a great wide place like the ’Platz, which became the Dancing Ground when some voices did not echo in response to the thunder clapping across the sky. Men danced the slow death of complete exhaustion and fell with a splash, one after the another, into the knee-deep blood that had seeped through the marsh underfoot, the dirt, turf, gravel, stone, concrete, and asphalt. Splash, splesh, splish, splosh, splush. The spotlights, bright as the eyes of God, did not follow their fallings. Those who remained standing as the night caterpillared down, wavered until at last, to the north, as usual, the shots rang out or did not ring out. The reprieve was always the truck that sped up and unloaded its cargo, live or dead. The first to be battered with club and fist and foot into the blood; the second to be heaped before the wavering thousands as examples of “pieces” that had gone astray and would dance no more anywhere, except in heaven or hell.
I heard myself hear music, the music I saw myself playing without a mistake, without nervousness; it bounded out of the Steinway, louder and cleaner than the barking dogs, the rifle shots, the moaning men, the snarling guards, and the sirens; the music leaped beyond the blocks and the SS noncom barracks, the electric fence with its low, mean hum, beyond the newer, higher walls, the moat. I heard my music angling south on an upward slant toward the Alps, then above them, soaring higher into a darkness that was becoming lighter because it was speeding toward the brightest thing in the southwest sky. Oh, I heard myself play melodies I’d never ever heard, and chords that should not have been possible on any piano, and I approached that brightness on an impossibly fast beat, saw myself look at that incredibly bright ball with smaller balls caught in their own rhythms rounding it, and I heard myself say, “How fine it is.”
Yes, it was last Thursda
y when I started to get better. I don’t know why I was hearing myself so good that I couldn’t forget what I said or what I saw, heard, and did when I was sick. I was in my room in the basement. It smelled like medicine. When the door was open I thought I was in a hospital because the walls were white, too. Then I knew that wasn’t so; Dieter Lange must have hung sheets over the fence where he kept his stuff locked up. I must have had visitors.
I said to Dieter Lange (we must have been alone) “I hate you.”
“Don’t hate me,” he said.
I wondered where Annaliese was. Hadn’t there been someone with her when she came—I think they came—to visit?
“Why didn’t you tell me about the letters? Why did you take Malcolm’s money?”
“I didn’t take the money. Someone in the camp post did. I know you’d have felt better if I’d given you those things earlier, but it was too much of a risk. And now, you see, they didn’t make you feel better after all.”
“I really do hate you, Dieter Lange,” I remember saying again. I remember feeling hungry just then, and I knew somehow that was a good sign.
Clifford's Blues Page 10