They made an afternoon of it on Saturday, riding the bus to Times Square because they were in no hurry and enjoyed looking out the windows instead of speeding through darkened subway tunnels. They lunched in the cavernous dining room of the Algonquin at Dietrich’s expense and then strolled to the Mayfair for the late matinee, standing in line beneath the marquee of orange lights, pale on this bright afternoon. Inside, Lasserre bought buttered popcorn and Dietrich, appalled at this even more bizarre form of corn, chose a bar of chocolate. They settled into velvet seats near the front of the packed theater. Lasserre looked around.
“Very popular film,” he said.
“Yes,” said Dietrich. “A good thing, I hope.”
They munched as the lights dimmed. In the film a patriotic schoolmaster incited boys in their jackets and ties to stand on their chairs and howl for blood. Dietrich was enthralled by the images of a German schoolroom so like his own. He did not recall such dramatics, but the warlike sentiments (directed toward the insufferable French) were familiar enough to cause him discomfort. The American accents of the supposedly German soldiers, and their easy American swaggers, disconcerted him even more. The audience laughed as the recruits played tricks on their sergeant, rustled and murmured anxiously as battle approached, grew fearfully quiet.
The French attacked, running in crouched swarms across a no-man’s-land strafed by white flashes of machine-gun fire. Men in the front lines were mown down. As more French soldiers fell before the young German heroes, a murmur of approval rolled from the back of the theater. A group of boys in the front row laughed and waved their arms at the flickering white screen.
A French soldier ran toward the audience, gun slung across his back, climbed barbed wire. BOOM! Bloody stumps of hands clung to the wire.
The audience moaned a long thrilling Oooooo and applauded.
Dietrich grabbed Lasserre’s sleeve. “I cannot bear this. I must leave.”
Lasserre nodded. They stood, ignoring the complaints of those behind them, and made their way to the back of the theater. The French had reached the German trenches and men wrestled, thrust bayonets into anonymous bellies. A Frenchman slipped and fell in the mud as he tried to run. The audience laughed.
Outside, Dietrich straightened his tie. He could not speak. Lasserre leaned against a wall warmed by the autumn sun.
“The Americans,” he said. “They are so innocent, and so terrible.”
My dearest brother, wrote Sabine, the street fighting grows worse. Contrary to what some might say, it is the Right which provokes most of it, and the Socialists and Communists who fight back, often in defense of their neighborhoods. Nor are the Nazis an uneducated rabble, as Father likes to call them. The coal and steel magnates are reported to be negotiating with Hitler, bankrolling him, Gerhard says. The Nazis’ strength grows in the universities as well. It is a terrible time for Gerhard at Göttingen; many of his colleagues at the university wear swastikas on their lapels and have stopped speaking to him. Each night students neglect their studies to don red-and-black armbands and venture into the working-class districts, searching for heads to break. Students, Dietrich! They also set fire to buildings. In one tenement a Jewish woman and her children burned to death, and two Communists were killed when their meeting hall was surrounded last week. When we go to Berlin for a visit, neighbors nod their heads and say, “Yes, yes, but it is good someone is firm with this government or next thing you know they will be expropriating our property. Regrettable the Nazis are so boisterous, but many of them are young, after all.” You know the sort of thing.
A new film has opened, based on the Remarque novel. Do you know it? Wherever it plays a gang of Nazis whistles and stomps and throws smoke bombs until the showing must be canceled. In Munich they even set fire to a screen. One would like to form some opinion about the film, but few theaters will show it now, and under the circumstances it seems best to stay away.
In January, Dietrich and his friends heard Paul Robeson at Carnegie Hall. Robeson was fresh from his London triumph in Othello and tickets were hard to come by, but Adam Junior managed it. Robeson stood in a circle of light, alone except for his piano accompanist, yet it seemed to Dietrich the man was an entire orchestra. He sang an impassioned version of “Go Down Moses,” switched smoothly to German Lieder—“Gute Ruhe”—and then swung into a rousing “John Henry.” He sang “Old Man River,” which the mostly white audience seemed especially to appreciate, although Adam Junior and Fred grimaced at each other when he began it. Dietrich, lost in the music, didn’t notice.
Afterward they went back to Pod’s and Jerry’s on West 133rd for a late supper.
“Wonder if Robeson will come in here,” said Fred. “Even he can’t get served south of 125th.”
“One place in Greenwich Village he can go,” Adam Junior corrected. He called for a round of drinks, then raised his glass.
“To Fred,” he said.
Fred grimaced.
“Look at him,” said Adam Junior. “The man should be happy. Proud. Landed a damn good job for just out of school, not to mention hard times like these.”
“What’s this?” said Myles. “You haven’t told me.”
“I’m still thinking on it myself,” said Fred.
“You turn this down,” said Adam Junior, “my daddy will be seriously put out. Stuck his neck out for you, brother.”
“I didn’t ask him to!” Fred said sharply. He drank his gin and tonic quickly and called for another, watched the piano player, tapped his foot nervously. “Sorry. I don’t like quick decisions.”
Adam Junior said, “The man has a call to a church, just waiting for when he gets that degree. Not an assistant, either. Temporary pastor of First Baptist Church in Charleston, West Virginia. One year trial, permanent after that. Biggest Negro church in the state.”
“How the hell you get that?” Myles asked.
Fred gritted his teeth. “Dr. Powell grew up near Charleston—”
“—in the boom town of Pratt, West Virginia, named after our own illustrious Pratts of New York,” Adam Junior broke in, because he knew it irritated Fred.
“—he grew up with some of the deacons at First Baptist—”
“—who moved into Charleston and became very big noises in the Negro community—”
“—and he spoke up for me.” Fred watched the girl singer, who looked no more than fourteen.
“Last fellow they had wasn’t so popular,” said Adam Junior, “but that’s okay. Makes Fred look better. And pastor before that was Mordecai Johnson, now president of Howard University. No way Charleston, West Virginia, is Atlanta, but this is still a church that gets noticed.” He put his hand on Fred’s shoulder. “Could be this man’s ticket to anywhere.”
“Nowhere that Mavis will go.” Fred gulped his drink.
Myles said, “Mavis wouldn’t go up Lenox Avenue with you, buddy. You got to forget that.”
Adam Junior nodded. “Listen to him,” he said. “Mavis likes café au lait and cash. Neither of which spells Fred Bishop.”
“Spells Adam Clayton Powell,” Fred said. Said it bitterly.
Adam Junior shrugged and lit a cigar. “If I was interested,” he said.
Dietrich and Lasserre only half listened. The conversation meant little to them. Lasserre had his place waiting in Bruay, and a fiancée. Dietrich possessed his name and his scholarly credentials. He could choose any university in Europe, but he would go home to Berlin, and gladly.
Myles was saying, “West Virginia. You won’t be that far from me.”
“Like I want to hang out with you the rest of my life,” said Fred.
Myles squinted at him. “If I hadn’t known you for three years—” he said.
“Damn it!” Fred’s fist crashed onto the table, spilling the drinks. “Don’t put this on me!”
Dietrich and Lasserre started, glanced at each other.
“You can’t stand success,” said Adam Junior. “You’d be happier out on the streets, riding the rails
. Piss your daddy so it would please you, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t be stupid. And don’t bring my father into this.”
“Scares you to death, doesn’t he?”
“You can’t talk, man. You jumped when Dr. Powell said jump. Gave up every dream you ever had.”
“Dreams are cheap, living’s expensive.” Adam Junior leaned over the table. “And tell you something. Not so scared of my daddy I stay away from Pod’s and Jerry’s. Not so scared I won’t go to the Savoy tonight. What about you?”
Fred stubbed out his cigarette, killed his drink.
“Hell,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Lasserre declared himself too tired, and returned to the seminary. The others piled into a taxi, which careered up Lenox as though already anticipating the next fare. Everyone was pleasantly tipsy, so the passing lights and crowds were a moving carnival—long tubes of purple and green and red, flashes of dark faces waving arms white smiles. At 140th they climbed out and waited while Adam Junior pumped the cabby’s hand and dropped a sizable tip along with his name. While they waited, the Savoy’s blinking marquee dared them to enter the
!!!!! BATTLE OF RHYTHM !!!!!!
FESS WILLIAMS
AND HIS ROYAL FLUSH ORCHESTRA
—V S—
CHICK WEBB
AND HIS ORCHESTRA
Stomp Music
They swaggered. Even Dietrich, breath white in the cold air and blood warmed by the gin and the muffled throb of the bands inside the hall. They paid their six bits and broke through a wall of cold into pulsing warmth. Crossed thick carpet beneath tiered chandeliers, passed couples lounging on settees drinks in hand, passed the marble and polished brass battlements of the soda fountain. The dance floor loomed, red and green and blue lights slashing across the polished maple, legs of the dancers disjointed and jittery. The bands faced off at either end, Royal Flush in full swing, trombones poking the ceiling, while Chick Webb’s band rested, wiped their faces with handkerchiefs, whispered among themselves, nodded their heads.
To Dietrich the air seemed bright with metal, showy as the trumpets and saxophones, sharp sound that pricked every part of him. He felt jumpy and his fingertips tingled.
Adam Junior headed for the Cats Corner close by the band where the best dancers gathered. Fred started to follow, then remembered he had guests. He stopped and gave Myles a pleading look, then said to Dietrich, “You want to hang with Myles here? He never dances anyway.”
Dietrich was disappointed. “You do not dance?” he asked Myles.
“Naw,” said Myles. “Fall over my own feet.”
“I never saw a hillbilly could dance,” said Fred, “except for that up-and-down thing you do.”
“Buck dancing,” said Myles.
“Whatever. They don’t do it here, that’s for sure.” He kept looking around for Mavis. Last thing he needed tonight was to see her on the arm of some conk-haired bastard flashing a bankroll.
“’Course you know,” Myles was saying, peering hard at Fred, “this is a place to have fun, not fret about your talent.” Stepped closer and spoke softly. “The man wants to dance.”
“Got my eye on Gloria Hill,” said Fred, patting Myles on the shoulder, “and she isn’t free that often. Maybe later. I’ll think of something.”
“Sure,” said Myles.
Couples were grabbing each other by the arms, kicking their legs out, slinging each other back and forth so hard if one let go the other would be thrown into space. Dietrich and Myles leaned against the wall, hands in their pockets, watching.
“I would very much like to try that,” said Dietrich. “Fred has promised to bring me here all year now and I have been looking forward, yet this is the first time.”
“Ask someone to dance,” said Myles.
“It must be someone who will teach me.”
Dietrich looked around. Three girls, arm in arm, watched the dancers and giggled.
“One of those?” he asked.
“Why not?” said Myles. “I reckon they’d like to be out there too.”
“They are very young.”
“What’s the difference? It’s just a dance.”
They didn’t notice him until he was bearing down on them. Then they looked him up and down in two seconds, tweed jacket, thinning hair, round wire glasses that should have been a monocle, broad tight lips. Asking in his strong German accent, “Vould either of you vant to dance? But you must show me first how to do it.”
They drew closer together. The one in the middle grabbed her friends’ arms. “You see that Dracula movie? Listen to this cat. It’s Bela Lugosi!”
They dissolved into giggles behind their hands and moved away, supporting one another as though they might fall over if they let go.
Hurt, he shrank back toward Myles, who pretended he hadn’t heard. The Royal Flush stepped down for their break, and Chick Webb’s bunch took out their instruments, pulled off mouthpieces, blew into them, wiped them with white cloths, and pushed them back on with the palms of their hands.
Myles tried to make small talk. “Ever smell a used clarinet reed? Stinks to high heaven. Wonder how they can stand it.” Dietrich said his brother Karl-Friedrich’s wife was quite accomplished on the oboe. He studied his fingernails, fighting off the familiar melancholy.
Myles said, “Wait here just a minute,” and went in search of Fred and Adam Junior, who, flushed and relaxed from dancing, were returning from the back-room bar. Myles blocked their way.
“The man still wants to dance,” he said. He nodded over at Dietrich, slumped against the far wall. “And he’s got his feelings hurt, turned down by some kids.”
Adam Junior lit a cigar. “Tell you what, Fred. I bet you five dollars you can’t find a woman who’ll dance with Bonhoeffer.”
Fred had been thinking. “Naw,” he said. “I already got an idea. Yolanda Pinkard is here.”
They all noticed Yolanda then, sitting with a girlfriend at a corner table nursing her drink. Yolanda, who had a crush on Fred, was four foot ten, packed solid, and homely, so she was seldom asked to dance. Which was a shame, because she could move and was lots of fun. With a different body, Yolanda would have cut a rug in Cats Corner every night.
Fred, close to thoroughly drunk, pointed his newly replenished glass of gin toward Yolanda. “Woman,” he drawled, “will dance with the man if I ask her to. Will look after Bonhoeffer the rest of the night if I ask her to. No question. Can’t take your money under those conditions, wouldn’t be fair.”
But Adam Junior, also feeling very fine, was in a wagering mood. He dug into his pocket and took out his wallet, fluttered three limp greengray bills.
“Okay then. Thirty dollars says she can’t get him to Cats Corner.”
“Come on!” Myles scoffed. “That’s way too much to just be throwing around.”
Adam Junior waved his arm. “Just offering. Don’t have to take it.”
“You’ll lose it, Fred,” said Myles, “and you don’t have it.”
“I got it,” Fred said. “Got it in my hip pocket. My daddy sent it to me. Said I should buy a good summer suit for my first Sunday at my new church.”
“Well, if you want to get rid of it, go outside and give it to some poor sonofabitch on the street—”
“Hey! I already got one daddy. Okay?”
Myles raised his hands. “Okay,” he said. “Forget I said anything.”
Fred looked over at Dietrich, who was watching them, pointed a finger at the dance floor, turned his palms up in a question. Dietrich stood away from the wall and nodded eagerly.
Fred held up one hand, palm out. He said to Adam Junior in an affected German accent, “I varn you—he is the best dancer of his family!”—Then he went to talk to Yolanda Pinkard. She played tough at first, looked Dietrich over from a distance and nearly choked on her drink.
“You kidding! White boy with a poker up his ass?”
“Take him off in the corner,” said Fred. “Practice a little.”
“Aw, Freddie! Why can’t I dance with you?”
“Half the money I win is yours, and you don’t put up anything.”
“So what! You ain’t winning no money.”
He leaned close. “He’s never done this before. But I’ve seen the man move. Show him the steps, Yolanda.”
She sighed and looked at her girlfriend, who shrugged and sucked her cigarette.
“Oh. Awlllll right.”
She flounced over, took Dietrich by the hand, and led him to the lobby, past the bouncers, large, soft-spoken, and gentle in their tuxedos, past hostesses in long pastel gowns carrying trays of swaying amber drinks. Behind them Chick Webb’s band burst into full flower. Dietrich looked back eagerly.
“Come on, honey,” Yolanda said impatiently. “Fred says I got to show you some things.”
“Oh yes. I want very much to learn this sving.”
Yolanda rolled her eyes and stuck out her hand.
They forgot Dietrich. Drank some more and danced some more. Ordered a platter of boiled shrimp and cocktail sauce studded with horseradish. Gloria Hill rested her hand on Fred’s arm. The Royal Flush was back onstage, drummer leaning close over his traps, barely moving and yet thundering. Adam Junior noticed a crowd gathered near the bandstand.
“What’s that?” he said.
The drummer was solo now, back and forth, side to side. Above the drums a woman’s voice—one two three four now get ready GO.
Myles caught a glimpse as more people moved toward the bandstand. “Oh Lord,” he said. “You won’t believe.”
They pushed their way through the clapping laughing crowd just in time to see Dietrich throw Yolanda over his shoulder. She landed square, big legs apart knees bent arms out. A necessary hesitation, then they crouched and shimmied and were in each other’s arms again, Dietrich slinging her this way and that, kicking his legs straight, not graceful or fluid but vigorous. Intense, a vertical furrow between his eyebrows, cheeks pooched out. Counting. Saw the others as he flipped around, arm extended, and broke for a moment into a radiant smile, then concentrating again, mouth moving. They cheered when he threw Yolanda again and pulled her back, bulk to bulk.
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