by Juliette Fay
The Birth of a Nation is about two families: one from the South and one from the North, around the time of the Civil War. There’s a grand cast of characters and each scene—from happy family life, to soldiers fighting and dying on enormous battlefields, to the burning of whole cities—was amazingly realistic. The camera must have been right in the middle of everything! I felt like I myself was that mother up in the hills with children clinging to me, while in the valley below Union soldiers burned my home to the ground.
At the end of the first half, I didn’t see anything terribly offensive about it. Lillian Gish, the leading lady, was sympathetic and beautiful. Most of the Negroes were played by blacked-up white people, but that didn’t seem so remarkable—it was an everyday affair in vaudeville.
The second part, after the war, began with quotes from President Woodrow Wilson: “The policy of the congressional leaders wrought . . . a veritable overthrow of civilization in the South . . . in their determination to “put the white South under the heel of the black South.’ ”
From then on, the bad colored people stop working and take all the free supplies denied the now poverty-stricken whites. When Election Day arrives, the title card explains: “All blacks are given the ballot, while the leading whites are disenfranchised.” Negro soldiers shove stately white gentlemen away from the ballot box. The state legislature is now comprised of Negroes drinking and taking off their shoes on their desks. They vote “Passage of a bill, providing for the intermarriage of blacks and whites,” as they ogle the white women in the gallery above.
The leading man, Colonel Cameron, is inspired to solve this problem when he sees two white children hide under a sheet and scare off superstitious colored children. “The result. The Ku Klux Klan, the organization that saved the South from the anarchy of black rule . . .”
Things go from bad to worse for another hour or so until the mulatto lieutenant governor insists on marrying Lillian Gish’s character. Her blue eyes go wide with shock as he says, “I will build a Black Empire and you as a Queen shall sit by my side.” Then he tells his colored henchmen to prepare for a forced wedding.
All is general mayhem. But then the KKK comes to Lillian Gish’s rescue and parades through the streets, and all the Negroes drop their guns and run away. At the next election, the Klansmen keep all the colored people from voting.
The last scene is that of Jesus looking down over all the happy white people. There are no colored people, happy or otherwise.
I’d heard the KKK had enjoyed a sudden upsurge since the movie came out in 1915, and now I could see why. I had always thought the Klan was a bunch of rednecks with nothing better to do than cause trouble for coloreds. But maybe there was more to the story. The movie, with its remarkable realism, had been very convincing that the Klan had good reason for their activities.
Afterward as we walked to Dobbins Drugs through the rain to get sandwiches, I learned that Joe was of an entirely different opinion: he was spitting mad.
“It’s the kind of lie people tell about anyone who isn’t like them,” he muttered venomously. “We’re savages, we’re devils, we want their women.”
I was astounded! “But, Joe . . . ,” I stammered stupidly. “You’re white.”
“Yes, but in some people’s eyes, I’m not. In some people’s eyes, I’m Italian—greasy and stupid and only fit for dirty work, like sweeping horseshit out of the street!” He was immediately apologetic. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”
“It’s okay, I’ve heard curse words before.” I didn’t mention that my own mother and sister were often the culprits.
“I suppose I feel comfortable enough with you to say how I truly feel.” He shook his head bitterly. “And I do not feel polite about lies that can ruin people.”
As we walked through the misting rain, I did something rather bold. I took his hand and laced my fingers in his. I wouldn’t usually be so forward, but I was frankly flabbergasted. I consider myself a reasonably intelligent and informed person, but in a matter of moments, Joe had made me see with clarity an important issue about which I had been woefully unenlightened.
At Dobbins Drugs, Joe and I were just tucking into our sandwiches when Gert came in and ordered two lunches. “Who’s the other one for?” I asked.
She gave me an annoyed look but didn’t answer.
“Is he afraid of a little rain?” I joked. It wasn’t like Gert to fetch anything for anyone, much less a man who was interested in her.
“He won’t leave the theatre,” she murmured. “Not after Ohmann showed that movie. He saw how it incited people to violence down south.”
“But this is New York,” I said.
“That’s what I said, but he won’t budge.”
“You know, the Klan’s not only down south,” said Joe. “A chapter just got started at Harvard this year.”
I found that pretty shocking. Maybe Tip was right. If educated young men in the cradle of the abolitionist movement could sign up with such an anti-Negro organization, it could certainly happen anywhere. As we walked back to the theatre, however, we saw nothing but umbrellas, their owners more intent on getting somewhere dry than causing trouble for a traveling tap dancer who happened to have an unusual skin color for the neighborhood.
After the last show, all the performers scurried back to the hotel, collars up around our chins, hats pulled tight over our heads to keep the driving rain from finding the chinks in our woolen armor. Even Gert came, but she soon went out again. Joe and I dallied in the hotel lobby, talking and holding hands until the mole-faced hotel clerk informed us that he was “closing up” and it was high time “children” should be in their rooms.
“We just want to sit and talk without bothering our families,” said Joe.
“I’m sure this little girl’s mother is wondering where she is,” said the clerk, his words thick with disdain. “And you should find someone your own age.”
Joe stood up, his stance menacing. “She’s seventeen,” he growled.
The clerk raised his hands in false conciliation. “I’m sure that’s what she told you—”
“I’ll be eighteen in July!” I insisted.
He might have been intimidated by Joe, but he certainly wasn’t by me. “Why don’t I call the authorities to come and check your birth certificate?” he sneered. “The Gerrymen would be happy to confirm that a vaudeville performer of your stature is within the bounds of the law.”
“Go right ahead!” said Joe.
“Never mind,” I said quickly. “I’m tired anyway. I’ll see you in the morning, Joe.” I pecked him on the cheek and headed up the stairs.
He caught up with me on the second-floor landing, where I was waiting for him. “Why didn’t you call his bluff?” he asked.
“Because if he called the Gerrymen, I’d be fine, but what if they started snooping around Kit and Lucy, and figured out that they’re both underage? It wasn’t worth opening that can of worms.”
Joe slid his arms around my waist and gave me a sly smile.
“What are you grinning about?” I asked.
“My father always said, “Whatever you do, don’t fall for a smart girl. They’re always one step ahead of you.’ ”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!”
“It would’ve been. Except he only ever said it in front of my mother. And then she would pinch his cheek and say, “Ah, poverino. Poor thing. Everybody feel-a sorry for you.’ ”
The love I felt for him in that moment surged through every vein in my body. I put my arms around his neck and tipped my chin up to his. “So, you’ll never fall for a smart girl.”
“It’s too late for that,” he murmured.
“Poverino,” I whispered, and kissed him so hard I nearly knocked him over.
Daylight was softly sifting in around the curtains when I heard the knob turn. I let my eyes open only to slits, and saw Gert slipping into our room. She took off her coat and slid into bed with me. “I k
now you’re awake,” she said.
“We both need sleep.”
“We’ll need a lot more than that tomorrow when everyone goes their separate ways.”
“Let’s not think about it.”
“No,” she said. “What would be the point.”
I didn’t go back to sleep, though, just lay there thinking of Joe. How he looked at me, the way he smelled when I buried my nose in his neck. How he’d stood to defend our being together against that mole-faced hotel clerk. About his mother, and how devastated she must be to have lost her husband. About losing Joe to the relentless locomotion of our current employment.
I dressed quietly and went down to breakfast. Joe was there, and he slid his hand into mine under the table. “Our last full day together,” he said, as if reading my mind.
The rain had let up, and wind had whipped the moisture from the sidewalks and park benches, though it lurked in the grass and gutters; the weather remained strangely unstable, breezy and cool one moment, warm and heavy the next.
That night, our last performance in Lyons, Willie “Watermelon” Lee went on first, as usual. The crowd, however, was anything but usual. They were rowdy and loud, stomping their feet, singing along with the refrains.
“Coon, coon, coon!” they hollered, as if it were the best tune they’d ever heard.
“Saturday night,” Joe said to me as he and Lucy waited in the wings for Willie to finish. “People like to have a drink or two before the show.” But there was more to it than just the rosy glow of libation. They were riled. They applauded for Lucy, but her brand of adorableness was less appealing to them than the bawdiness of Willie’s blackened face shouting about how every coon looked the same to him.
As Lucy launched into her last song, Tip came up beside me to wait for his entrance. From the shadow of a leg curtain, he stared out like a Christian eyeing lions in the coliseum. His hands clenched and loosened, and he bounced on his knees a bit.
“You’ll do great,” I said lamely, as if it were stage jitters that worried him.
He turned to me and held my gaze. “Thank you.” I knew it wasn’t for the halfhearted encouragement I’d just given him. “I think highly of your family,” he added solemnly.
I doubt if I’ll ever truly know what possessed me to do what I did next. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was the only thing I could think of. Whatever the reason, I slipped my hand into his. “We think very highly of you, too,” I said, and squeezed the first black skin I had ever touched. It didn’t feel like anything special. It was just a hand, after all.
I heard boos scattered in with the applause when Tip went on. Gert came up behind Joe and me. “He’s worried,” she murmured.
We stood there watching Tip move as fast as he ever had, as if by sheer force of talent he could keep them appeased. But the applause was losing ground to the heckling.
“Get off the stage, boy!” someone called out.
“Go pick some cotton!” yelled another.
Gert grabbed my arm. “He needs to get out of here.”
“I’m going to get his pay,” Joe said, and strode quickly away.
Tip kept tapping.
A burly man in the audience stood up. “You like that movie, boy?” He pulled his white handkerchief from his pocket and draped it over his head. “You scared now?”
People called for the man to sit down, but he remained standing. “Did I see you walking with a white girl, over by Cutler’s shed last night?” A gasp went up in the crowd. The piano player missed some notes and had to play quickly to get back in concert with the other musicians.
“You like white girls, boy?” It was another man this time.
Then another called out, “Probably more than he likes drowning in canal muck!”
Suddenly the front curtain began to close. I looked to the opposite wing, and there was skinny Albert, pulling the cords with all his might. “Go!” he hissed to Tip.
Gert and I ran onto the stage to help Tip collect his springboard and table. As we hauled them offstage, Mr. Ohmann met us in the wings. He handed Tip some money.
“Extra in there for your trouble,” he said, shaking his head. “Damn flicker. Never should’ve shown it. Most people in town are decent folks, but there’s a few . . .”
“When’s the next train?” said Tip, mopping the sweat from his face with his hand.
“Not for a while,” said Ohmann. “Go on down to the canal and see if someone will take you onboard.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Joe. “I’ll find someone.”
In another moment, the table and springboard were loaded in his trunk.
“Don’t go out the stage door,” said Ohmann. “If anyone’s waiting, that’s where they’ll be. There’s a door from my office. Follow me.”
Tip looked at Gert. She met his gaze.
And then he was gone.
She stood staring after him, at the space he’d so recently warmed with his presence, and an emptiness came over me—over all of us, I suspect—a hopeless, faithless bitterness that made me want to lie down and never get up.
“You have to go on,” Albert told us. “Best thing you can do for him now is keep the audience in their seats.”
The curtain went up and the Tumbling Turners tumbled and leapt and told jokes with vaudeville-size smiles on our faces. We entertained as we never had before. We entertained like our lives—or the life of someone we loved—depended on it.
32
GERT
The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love.
What the world really needs is more love and less paperwork.
—Pearl Bailey, singer and actress
I’m not quite sure how I got back to the hotel after that. I remember an arm around my waist, small but strong, guiding me like I was blind.
We sat in the lobby and waited for Joe. It was years. I could feel myself aging.
“Breathe, Gertie,” Winnie said, and for once I did as I was told.
Nell came down. “Harry and the girls are asleep,” she murmured. “Any word?”
Winnie shook her head. Nell sat beside me and took my other hand.
Finally the wind blew the door open with a thunk. Made us all jump as if it were gunfire. Joe’s hair was stuck with leaves. “He’s okay. Should be well on his way to Rochester by now.”
He looked at me and said softly, “He asked me to tell you he’s sorry.”
I stared at him. Sorry? I thought. Sorry for having black skin? But that wasn’t what it meant. Tip wasn’t apologizing for himself. He was apologizing for the world.
I wanted to thank Joe. Thank you for keeping him safe, I wanted to say. Until the next time someone feels like killing him, of course. For all I knew he was dead already. But I couldn’t get the words out. I covered my face and wept.
When I quieted, they took me upstairs. “Do you want to talk?” Nell whispered. Black eye makeup striped down her cheeks. Winnie’s, too.
What good would talking do? What good would anything do?
“I’m just so tired,” I said.
Lucy and Kit were fast asleep. We washed our faces, changed into our nightdresses, and got into bed. As I lay there, my loss grew to include Winnie’s.
She would lose Joe. He was a good man. I saw that now.
“You love Joe, don’t you?” I said into the darkness.
“I . . . I think so.”
“You should go to him.”
“Right now?”
“We’re leaving in the morning. You can’t waste even a minute.”
“But that’s not . . . it’s not . . . ,” she stammered. Winnie the word lover. She only came up with, “. . . ladylike.”
“When did you ever care about being ladylike?” I shot back. “You want to go to college, for godsake.”
I heard a little gasp. “How did you know that?”
“It’s obvious. You were practically born for it. Now stop talking and go.”
“But what if he thinks I’m some kind of harlo
t?”
“Are you?”
“No, of course not!”
“Listen to me,” I said. “The only thing you are is Winnie Turner. After that, you make your own terms.”
33
WINNIE
I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.
—Mae West, actress and comedian
Joe opened the door wearing an undershirt and pants, unbuckled belt dangling from the loops. His brow furrowed with concern. “Are you going out again?”
I had my coat on and even my shoes. I didn’t want anyone to think I was traipsing around in only a nightdress, which was precisely what I was doing. “No, I . . . I just wanted to talk.”
He ushered me in, closing the door behind me. “About what?”
“Anything, really. But if you’re tired, I could go.”
“I’m exhausted,” he said, smiling wearily, “but I definitely don’t want you to go.”
“I should start by saying that I’m not here to—”
“No, that’s fine,” he said quickly. “I mean, of course not. I’ll sit in the chair and you can sit on the bed. Or maybe you should sit in the chair . . .”
I took off my boots and curled my feet under me in the overstuffed chair, but I kept my coat on. “Tell me what happened with Tip.”
Joe said they had run down to the canal as fast as any two men dragging an oversized trunk could. Then they followed the mule path beside the canal out of town for about a mile until they came to some trees that Tip could hide in.
“I waited until I saw a colored barge captain and flagged him down. The canal is so narrow there you can practically walk along and talk in a normal voice to someone onboard. I told him what happened, and he agreed to take Tip the forty miles or so to Rochester.”
I could picture it all clearly. But one thing wasn’t so clear, at least not to me.
“Joe, why did you want to help him like that? I know you weren’t enthusiastic about his relationship with Gert.”
“Madonne!” he snapped. “I should have let that bunch of thugs string him up?”
