by Maya Angelou
The trip on Lufthansa was a test in discomfort. The flight stewards spoke excellent English and were solicitous without being intrusive, but I kept my eyes on the script in my lap, and let my mind wander from the German accents to John Hersey’s book The Wall which had gripped me with horror in my youth. I listened to the speech of the passengers returning to their fatherland and remembered the black and white photographs of emaciated human beings rescued from Auschwitz. It was distressing. In Ghana I worked hard at forgiving those African chiefs who collaborated in the slave trade centuries before, but couldn’t find it in my heart to exonerate the stewardesses who were toddlers at the time of the Holocaust. Prejudice is a burden which confuses the past, threatens the future, and renders the present inaccessible.
I rehearsed in a small pension in Frankfurt until the lines came automatically to my mind and my tongue. I had learned years before that if I was to act in a play it was wise to memorize every part, even the scenes in which I did not appear. The resulting confidence would spill over into my own role.
Berlin, with its cold temperature, its high-rises, wide, clean avenues and White, White people was exactly what I wanted to see and where I needed to be. I began to relax even as I was being driven from the airport to the Hilton Hotel. When I arrived at my destination I found wide, carpeted corridors, a large, well-furnished bedroom and a bathroom white as a Protestant heaven.
I thought of some Africans I had met who so loved the glories of Europe, they were too immobilized to construct a splendid African future.
This was easy to understand. Europe had ruled long, had brought to Africa a language, a religion, modern ideas of medicine, and its own pervading self-love. How could one suggest in one’s own secret heart that Whites were not gods, descending from heaven, and like gods, bringing bounty on one hand and brutality on the other? That was the way of the gods.
After a bath, I dressed in my most glorious pale lavender silk Grand Bou Bou, and went down to meet the cast.
Raymond St. Jacques was still so handsome he looked as if he had been sculpted, then cast in copper. Cecily Tyson was smaller than I remembered and much more glamorous. We embraced and laughed at finding ourselves, of all places, in Germany. Godfrey Cambridge had been unable to come to Berlin because he was in a Broadway show, but Lex Monson and Jay Flash Riley pulled me off the floor with their embraces, and the young Lou Gossett, one half legs and the other smiles, bounced up and down to see me. James Earl Jones and I exchanged our customary cool salutes. Years before in New York City we had worked successfully creating a distance which time had not narrowed.
“Lady! Ah, my Lady!” A sonorous voice completed the welcome I had been seeking. Roscoe Lee Browne entered the rehearsal room and I nearly shouted. He had lost none of his princely air nor elegant good looks. He laughed outright when he saw me, and he spoke to me as he spoke to all women; as if we were Fairie Queens.
We embraced and walked away from the cast and began to tell each other of our current lives. We went to a bar and ordered drinks. Roscoe had heard rumors of my recent divorce, and was genuinely sorry to find that they were founded on fact. He asked about my acceptance in Ghana, adding that he had known President Nkrumah when they had both studied at Lincoln University.
I had prepared a tale for the cast, which had Africans and Black Americans lovingly striding arm in arm up a golden staircase to an all sepia paradise inhabited with black-robed Black saints strumming on ebony harps. I had no need to lie to Roscoe, who would have seen through the fiction anyway.
“We have it good, very good, or bad. Heartbreakingly bad.”
Roscoe made his face long. “Africans find it hard to forgive us slavery, don’t they?” He took my hand and said, “I thought you would have known that. My dear, they can’t forgive us, and even more terrible, they can’t forgive themselves. They’re like the young here in this tragic country. They will never forgive their parents for what they did to the Jews, and they can’t forgive the Jews for surviving and being a living testament to human bestiality.” He patted my hand. “Now, dear lady, tell me the good side—but first let me hear the story you’re going to tell everyone else.”
He laughed when I said I’d spare him the part about all of the Black Americans climbing aboard a chariot and humming our way to heaven.
He said, “Not unless they cast me as De Lawd.” It was wonderful to laugh again, and particularly sweet to laugh Black American rueful laughter in Germany.
The Blacks translated into German became Die Negers. Posters were on bold display throughout Berlin which made the cast snicker behind Black hands. Lex said, “It’s a good thing they’re speaking German. The first American cracker that comes up to me and says ‘I saw you in de Niggers’ is going to get a nigger beating that’ll make him do a million novenas.” That was particularly funny coming from Monson who played the Catholic priest in the play, coached the actors in church liturgy and whose youth as a devoted acolyte still influenced his adult mannerisms.
Helen Martin, who had the role of the Black Queen and whose sharp tongue was an instrument to be avoided, said, “I hope these Germans don’t think they’re getting away with something. We know who they are and what they’re saying. I hope I don’t have to read them the real Riot Act before it’s finished.”
I listened and participated in the sardonic responses and realized again the difference between the Black American and the African. Over centuries of oppression we had developed a doctrine of resistance which included false docility and sarcasm. We also had a most un-African trait: we were nearly always ready and willing to fight. Too frequently we fought among ourselves, rendering our neighborhoods dangerous to traverse. But Whites knew that our bellicosity could disperse into other places, on jobs, in elevators, on buses, and in social gatherings.
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 wa
s 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 après-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 in 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 downstairs. 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 you
r 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 kitchen, 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.