by Irwin Shaw
What do you do with the women who signed petitions and raised money for refugees who later turned out to be Russian spies, the women who had aimlessly advanced the Revolution because they were afraid of having dinner alone that night?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Burke was saying, standing at the lectern and banging on it with a gavel, “ladies and gentlemen. …”
Reluctantly, people began to sit down, their conversation dying slowly, with little new waves of last-minute noise, as though everyone there was certain that what they would hear from the platform would be less interesting and amusing than what he himself was saying to his neighbor.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Burke said, when the hum had almost subsided, “I want to thank you for coming tonight. And I want to thank you for this magnificent turnout in defense of a free press, a free theatre, a free radio. …”
The room was three-quarters full. Perhaps two hundred people, Archer figured roughly. How many people were there who made their living out of the theatre and the radio? Five thousand? Ten thousand? And in the room how many were FBI agents, investigators, reporters? Did 200 out of 10,000 really seem magnificent to Burke for this particular cause?
Burke’s tone, as usual, was pugnacious and threatening, in his well-known commentator manner. If he were to recite the “Ode to a Nightingale,” Archer thought idly, he would make it sound like the summation of the district attorney in a murder case.
“I have been chosen to be chairman of this meeting,” Burke was saying, “because I have the dubious distinction of being the first victim of the latter-day Thuggees of Madison Avenue. I’ve been out of work for a year,” Burke said accusingly, making everybody feel vaguely guilty, “and I’ve had time to reflect on the issues and the strategy. They used me as a test case and when they saw it worked so easily they had a little celebration and raised the black flag and moved in on the main body of the fleet.”
Now, Archer thought wearily, we have moved out of the trenches and engaged in a naval action.
“The main body of the fleet,” Burke said harshly, “is you. Everyone of you sitting here. And everyone who writes or acts for a living who is too lazy or too pleasure-loving or too gutless to show up here tonight and fight for himself.” He peered furiously over the lectern, making his audience move uncomfortably in their chairs, as though somehow they were responsible for the sloth and luxury and cowardice of the absent artists. “I’ve been warning you people for a year now,” Burke went on, “every chance I’ve had. …”
That’s no lie, Archer thought, remembering Burke’s tireless alcoholic tirades. Cato, over a thousand double Scotches, saying that Carthage must be destroyed.
“And none of you listened,” Burke said scornfully. “You were doing OK. You thought, The hell with Burke. What’s one commentator more or less? So you let them move their big guns up without firing a shot at them, and now they’re spraying the rear positions with HE and stink bombs and you’re all getting it now and you finally’re yelling for support. Well, now it may be too late,” Burke said with glum satisfaction, “but maybe we can put up enough of a show to force them to negotiate for terms. Right now, they’re calling for unconditional surrender. They’ve got us on the run and they’re pouring it onto us on land, sea and air, and they’re advancing at will because so far they haven’t even been annoyed by snipers anywhere they’ve gone. They’ve got the zones of occupation all marked out, and the gauleiters’ve all been picked and are ready to go to work.”
Burke was enjoying himself, Archer realized, as he painted this dire picture. He had suffered alone so long that he was greeting the new legion of recruits to misery with shouts of hoarse and mournful delight.
“Before I go any further,” Burke said, glaring out at the brightly lit room, “I want to say something personal.” He paused for effect, rocking a little, both hands gripping the lectern dramatically. “I am not a Communist,” he said slowly, “and I never have been a Communist and I never expect to be a Communist.”
Lord, Archer thought wearily, the formula has reached the status of a set art form now, like a sonnet, from long use and repetition.
There was silence in the room. Archer looked over at Lewis, on the other side of Burke. Lewis had his hand up over his face and was making a disgusted grimace.
“What’s more,” Burke said, “I am unalterably opposed to the Communists.”
Somebody applauded in the back of the room. The single, persistent clapping sounded theatrical and embarrassing. Then, from different sections of the room, there came a curious little noise. Archer frowned, trying to place it. Then he recognized what it was. People were hissing softly.
“OK, OK,” Burke said. “I knew this was going to make me unpopular. But that’s the way I feel and you might as well know it. I’ve been registering as a Democrat since 1936, and that’s what I am, and I see no reason for pretending to hide it. And if all the Communists in this country felt the same way about what they believed in and came right out and said it publicly, we’d be a damn sight better off right now.”
What a strange man, Archer thought, half-admiringly, he enjoys the process of getting people to dislike him.
“But there’s another side to me,” Burke said, reveling in this opportunity for self-expression after the long silence that had been imposed upon him since he lost his program. “I hate the other side even worse than the Communists. I hate the Nazis and the Fascists and the concentration-camp boys and the crematorium-builders, and I suspect that if we scratched around a little we’d find out that those’re exactly the people who have been making all this fuss in the radio business and getting people kicked out of their jobs in the name of one hundred percent Americanism. So what I propose is that we do a little investigating on our own hook. Let’s raise some money and get our Guilds to chip in and hire a couple of detectives ourselves. Instead of screaming about how pure we are, let’s get in and slug it out with the bastards on their own terms. Let’s see some of the skeletons in their closet, for a change. We’re in a fight and we’re getting our eyes gouged out. Let’s stop calling for the referee and do a little eye-gouging ourselves.”
Archer sighed. Woodie, he thought, I have left you long ago. Burke was a victim of his vocabulary. Everything was an ambush, a landing, a prizefight, and he never could appeal to a man who thought in less primitive terms.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll find,” Burke was shouting. “And I’ll bet my last dollar on it. Let’s look and see where the money comes from and we’ll find it’s been handed in by ex-Christian Fronters, by patriots who were chummy with Goering in 1940, by money-boys who had a nice deal on with Mussolini when that looked like the winning side. If they come out with the news that we sent our old fur coats to the Russians in 1941 let’s tell the world that they had dinner with the German consul the same year.”
Burke’s law, Archer thought. Everybody is as evil as everybody else. All parties are totally guilty. Pragmatic morality for the last half of the century. Archer began to feel sorry that he had come this evening.
“Attack,” Burke said belligerently, echoing dozens of press conferences with divisional commanders. “Attack them where they live. Stop defending yourselves, because that way you always give them choice of weapons and choice of ground, and you’ll be licked every time. Seize the initiative,” he growled, once more the man who had jumped from burning planes and entered cities with the first patrols. “Club them so hard and so often they’ll be too busy to club you. Thank you.”
Burke sat down, full of loathing and malice toward all. There was a half-hearted attempt at applause, which died down almost immediately. Two more speeches like that, Archer thought, and you won’t be able to get a majority of this meeting to agree that this is Friday night.
Burke stood up, remembering that he was the master of ceremonies.
“Now,” he said mildly, “in case there’s anybody here who still doesn’t believe what’s happening in the radio industry, anybody who thinks that it’s j
ust a couple of cranks and crackpots who couldn’t get jobs anyway who are cooking this up, we’re going to hear from a man who’s on the inside and who’s seen it happening and who’s brave enough to tell about it. You all know Joe Kramer. He’s sold some of the biggest shows on the air and he’s been peddling actors and writers since Maude Adams hung up her cleats, and he’s in and out of everybody’s office ten times a day and he can tell you from the other side of the fence just what we’re all facing today. Joe Kramer.”
There was a surprisingly strong burst of applause, because the audience wanted to applaud someone and it was impossible to applaud Burke. Kramer got up, his forehead moist, his jacket rippling richly. He looked flustered because this was the first time in his life that anybody had ever applauded him.
“Boys and girls,” Kramer said, his voice high and shrill and professionally friendly, “I’m very happy to be here tonight.”
Why? Archer thought. Why should anyone be happy to be here tonight? Kramer, whose profession it was to please everyone at all times, would undoubtedly say he was happy to be here tonight at an execution.
“I’m not going to say that I approve of everything I’ve heard here on this platform,” Kramer said cautiously, keeping his lines open in all directions, “although I have the deepest admiration for Woodie Burke, whose work we all know and respect and who was. one of the most popular commentators on the air until recently. I don’t approve, as I said, and I don’t disapprove. That’s not my line. What I know about politics you could put in a chorus girl’s g-string and it wouldn’t raise a lump. As far as I know, Warren G. Harding was the greatest President we ever had and Russia is the place we get borscht from and plays that haven’t made a nickel for anyone since 1910. All I’m interested in, boys and girls, is stealing actors from other agents and trying to keep other agents from stealing actors from me.” He grinned, to show that this was a joke, and he was rewarded by a laugh from his audience. “Also,” he said, “I’m interested in getting a couple of more bucks a week for my clients and getting my ten percent and keeping everybody happy. But Woodie here is a client of mine. …” Kramer turned toward Burke and made a small bow of gratitude and deference, “and he asked me to come and talk to you boys and girls and here I am.”
Kramer took out an enormous handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his brow delicately. “First of all,” he said, “I want to tell you boys and girls something you ought to know. There is a blacklist. …”
There was a burst of ironic laughter from the audience and Kramer looked flustered for a moment and confused, as though he hadn’t realized that he had told a joke. Then he grinned, a little uneasily. “What I mean,” he said, “is that you hear a lot of denials all over the industry. You can’t pin down any agency head or network official and get him to come right out and admit it. In Woodie’s case, for example …” Again his voice slurred affectionately as it passed over his client’s name, “Woodie’s rating was 10 point 5, when option time came up, and you all know what that means. Woodie was ahead of every other commentator in the country, and, to tell you the truth, I was contemplating going in and asking for more money from the agency. But then the option was dropped. Just like that. Just a note from the agency, which will be nameless, because there is no sense in dragging in the names of people who have been good friends for a long time. I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Kramer said dramatically. “Then, when I started to try to find out what was happening, I got the brush. Just the brush. First the program director was in conference, then the vice-president was leaving for California, then finally, two weeks later, when I insisted on getting in, they told me go see the network man. Then, at the network, they gave me the shuffle. Nobody would take responsibility and I spent six weeks going from office to office and finally they admitted they wouldn’t sell the time for Woodie, they didn’t think he was important enough for that time. A man with a Hooper of 10 point 5!” Kramer said wonderingly. “Not important enough for a fifteen-minute spot at six o’clock weekdays! Then, at last I got it from somebody at the agency whose name I am not at liberty to divulge. He told me they’d been receiving protests, twenty or thirty calls a day. They checked with the phone company once and they found out that all the calls on one particular day came from the same phone booth in Long Island City. And all the calls said the same thing. They said Woodie, who you have just heard say he is opposed to the Communists and who has a personal letter of commendation for patriotic service from the War Department, they said that Woodie was a Red and that unless he was put off the air, they would boycott the sponsor’s product. And the network was getting the same calls, too. The man at the agency who told me all this also told me that if I ever repeated this he would say I was lying and that he had never said anything of the kind. And since that time, boys and girls, I have met resistance on a lot of people that I used to be able to sell for the biggest programs in the country just by lifting the telephone and making a two-minute call. I never get the real reason. Just the same runaround. Just that the agency is looking for another type of show or another type of character. But I know and you know what the answer is, when big personalities who have been at the top for ten years, drawing top money, suddenly don’t fit specifications any more. And there doesn’t seem to be just one set list. Some agencies’re a little more lenient than others. They’ll hire people that can’t get jobs with the firm down the hall. But there’s a certain group of people, and I won’t mince words, who might just as well move to Nebraska and start raising corn, because the only way they can get into any radio or television program is by writing in for tickets.”
The room was very quiet. Kramer mopped his forehead and went on earnestly. “Boys and girls,” he said, “I’m going to tell you frankly right here in this public meeting just what I tell to my clients in the privacy of my own office. Something practical. What I tell them is simple, ‘Son,’ I tell them, ‘you go through your books and you find out what organizations you ever belonged to, all the way back to the Pontiac Athletic and Social Club when you were ten years old, and you sit down and write a letter and keep a copy and have it registered and send in your resignation. And if the organization folded up twenty years ago, that makes no difference. Write that letter. And if anybody asks you to join any new organization, run like a thief. And that goes for the YMCA or Young Republicans for Taft or anything that has the word Freedom in the title and I don’t care who’s the president or on the board of directors, Eisenhower or Winston Churchill or anybody. A lot of people aren’t working today because they sent twenty bucks somewhere because Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, that great American, wrote them a letter ten years ago and asked them for a contribution. It doesn’t make any difference to that feller in Long Island City with a pocketful of nickels whether a five-star general or an ambassador to England sat next to you on the platform that night. He’s out to get your job and he knows how to do it and he’s doing it. Face the facts. You’re an artist. Leave politics to the politicians or you’ll fry. And if they put a piece of paper in front of your nose and you have to swear you’re not a Communist and you hate the Communists worse, than polio, you sign it, and sign it ten times a day, if that’s what they want.”
Kramer was sweating profusely now and his face was an alarming high-blood-pressure scarlet. “That’s what I tell my clients,” he said, “in the privacy of my own office because I want to keep them alive and I want to keep myself alive. And I’m going to tell you something else. If they don’t agree to do what I say, no matter how big they are, and how much I like them personally, I shake their hands and I say, ‘Get yourself another boy from now on, son. I don’t handle you any more.’ ” He nodded soberly at the gathering. “Boys and girls,” he said earnestly, pleading for purity and ten percent, “I know the public pulse and I love you all, even the ones who make fun of me and call me a bloodsucker and a parasite. I love everyone who gets up on a stage or in front of a mike and reads a line or sings a song and makes people laugh or cry. I know it sounds corny, bu
t it’s the truth, and I don’t want to see you murdered. So remember what I said. Resign, disaffiliate, quit. Entertain. Let the Supreme Court worry about the Bill of Rights. Thank you.” Kramer bowed stiffly and walked briskly, in short, nervous steps, on his shoes with the built-up heels, over to his chair, and sat down.
After a while, there was a slow, dispirited scattering of applause. Most of the audience merely sat pensively, staring down at their hands.
Even if you agreed with him, Archer thought, Kramer had hardly voiced a doctrine that could be greeted with wild enthusiasm. Resign, Disaffiliate, Quit, Entertain. Archer remembered photographs taken outside Tripoli during the war. Pictures of shell-torn buildings of Italian colonists on whose walls Mussolini had painted another slogan. Credere, Ubbidire, Combattere. Believe, Obey, Fight. The Italian had said nothing about entertaining. He had missed out on an interesting modern imperative, probably because he was new at the game and hadn’t had time to work his philosophy out fully.
Burke was walking thoughtfully up to the lectern as the applause died down.
“Clem …” Kramer leaned across an empty chair toward Archer, the color in his face slowly receding. “Clem,” he asked anxiously, “how did you like it?”