The dull ache below my ribcage became a very uncomfortable twinge. The college nurse had chalked it up as stress. Clenching my jaw, I tried to shrug it off, fixing my eyes on the back of the agent’s blond head.
I waited in the lobby to be called into Mr. Hoover’s office. After what seemed a very long time, his secretary finally said he was ready. I entered the office and he stood from behind a desk, extending his hand without taking a step.
“J. Edgar Hoover,” he said, shaking my hand and sitting again.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hoover. Sidney Temple.”
“Please, have a seat.”
Surprisingly, the man before me looked no older than twenty. He was about five-feet-ten with a boxer’s nose, thick, bushy eyebrows, and a squatty neck. He looked very much like a bulldog, but he was an exceptionally neat, well-groomed, and organized bulldog; I gave him that much.
I took a seat in an uninviting metal folding chair in front of his desk. As I scooted forward, the chair legs screeched against the marble floor. The entire office had an empty, cold feeling to it, with unpacked boxes and gray file cabinets lining the ivory walls, recently painted judging by the smell. He was obviously just moving in.
A framed diploma from George Washington University hung behind his desk, and various photographs covered the wall to his right. There was only one window in the office, designed, it seemed, to hinder rather than let in the sunlight.
“We’ve been doing a bit of shuffling between office buildings around here, Sidney,” he said, reading something. “I haven’t even been officially named head of the General Intelligence Division. That will happen on August first. But official titles aside, I’ve been given my orders.
“The attorney general’s office and those of us here at the Department of Justice have been told that these arbitrary locations are temporary—that we’ll be getting a permanent home base soon. I’m told they’ve been saying that for nine years. We shall see.”
I nodded while he stayed fixed on his report of some sort, flipping to another page.
“The BOI wants to make it a habit of tracking college students of all racial backgrounds who perform at the academic level at which you performed. We’re fond of those students, especially those”—his finger scanned the page—“with a knack for physics, mathematics, psychology, and law.”
He looked up from the file, seeing me for the first time it seemed, aside from the brief look he’d given before brusquely shaking my hand. “We’re even more enamored of those who remain apolitical,” he said, tapping the file. “In going over your history here, I find it remarkable, even a tad hard to believe, that you’ve never been a part of any fraternities, social groups, or committees—even during high school—not even on the student council. Correct?”
“That is true.”
“It’s one of the reasons you’re sitting in that chair. Your autonomy is appealing—that and the fact that you have the physique of a sportsman and not some bookwormy engineer. Have you ever been inclined to join any political party or national movement?”
“My focus from the time I left Bronzeville was on earning an engineering degree—nothing else.”
He looked back at the file. “I also see that two years ago you attempted to enlist for the war but were turned down due to a letter that was sent to the Army by your college president regarding your”—again his finger scanned—“unique acumen for physics, your overall distinguished scholarship.”
I was puzzled by that bit of information and responded, “I did attempt to enlist and was turned down. But I am unaware of any letter being written on my behalf.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I know you weren’t aware of said letter. Your honest response is commendable.” He looked directly at me again. “Ever fired a pistol?”
To this question I wanted to lie and say yes and that I had done some training in hopes of preparing myself to be a soldier someday. I wanted to impress the young man but figured he was the type to suggest a visit to a shooting range to gauge my comfort level with a gun. He would have been sadly disappointed.
I also knew that he was probably suspicious, like most, of any colored who’d ever fired a gun. As far as I knew, there wasn’t a shooting range in America that allowed men like me onto their grounds. Therefore, any answer other than no would lead Mr. Hoover to believe that I had fired a pistol illegally. So I told the truth.
“Never,” I answered.
“Doesn’t mean you’re not a good aim.” Again, he looked at the file. “Your high school coach, a Mr. Sanders, says here your vision and hand-eye coordination is ‘unmatched on the basketball court.’ Based on the high marks and comments your coach gave you, I believe even Dr. James Naismith himself would be impressed.”
He looked back at me. “Anyway, the Bureau hasn’t been given the authority by Congress to allow its agents to even carry handguns. I’m hoping that will soon change, and when it does, I’m sure you’ll take kindly to a sidearm.”
“I believe I would.”
“I need to sign a few papers here, Sidney. Bear with me. But I’ll ask you while I’m signing. I want you to try to be as specific as possible with your answer. What do you know about the Negro scholar W. E. B. Du Bois—assuming you’re familiar with his philosophy? Are you aware of his communist leanings and dangerous agenda?”
I froze, trying to make sure I’d heard him correctly. “Well, I am . . .”
“Hold that thought,” he interrupted, as his focus was on signing the papers. “One minute.”
I was bothered by what he’d said about Du Bois and felt foolish all of a sudden. I had allowed excitement to get in the way of common sense. Gladforth hadn’t approached me to do the same type of work their other agents do. Of course not. They needed a Negro to spy on another Negro—one W. E. B. Du Bois.
“Just one more minute here, Sidney.”
I watched Mr. Hoover turn page after page, penning his signature on each. Little did he know he’d mentioned my idol. I’d read everything Du Bois had ever written. But I was certain that Hoover knew nothing about my views because I’d never written nor spoken publicly about the man.
I considered Du Bois the preeminent scholar of his time—the leader of colored America. And now, for that, the Bureau wanted to pry into his life. But they had the wrong man for this job. Besides, there would be nothing to find: He was completely honorable.
“All right, Sidney,” he said, returning to my interview, which seemed to be becoming almost a distraction from his real job. “Go ahead.”
“Well . . . I . . . I think that Du Bois’s precise objective is unknown.”
“Do you subscribe to the Crisis?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Just then there was a knock and his secretary opened the door.
“Mr. Hoover,” she said, “Agent Lively needs you in the meeting next door for a brief moment.”
“I’ll be right there. Listen, Sidney, I want to apologize in advance for this, but I may be running in and out of here during our visit. I was to take part in another meeting next door but didn’t see why I couldn’t fit you in. Told them to call me in only when my opinion is needed. We all have to keep several balls in the air at the same time around here.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” He stood. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Once he exited, leaving the door open behind him, I stood and walked over to the window, looked out, and tried to gather my thoughts. I actually read the Crisis religiously but hadn’t ever subscribed to it. Something Hoover didn’t know was how voracious a reader I was of many subjects, not just physics.
One of my more political teachers, Professor Gold, provided me with several colored newspapers, all of which were, of course, controversial. But he knew it was critical for me never to appear to be part of any movement if I was going to get hired at any institution as an engineer or professor. Whenever I took one of these newspapers home with me, he told me t
o “burn after reading,” and I always did.
“Mr. Temple,” said his secretary, walking just inside the doorway, “Mr. Hoover will be back in just a second. Can I get you anything?”
“No, ma’am. I’m fine. Thank you.”
She half smiled, walked out, and I turned back to the window, my thoughts still on Professor Gold. He and I were very close. He was a white man with socialist leanings. He had changed his name from Jackson, a name his father had adopted on entering the country, back to Gold upon his graduation from Harvard in 1872—likely out of pure embarrassment for bearing the seventh president’s last name.
Simply put, Professor Gold was like a modern-day abolitionist. He hated inequality and had taken a strong interest in me my freshman year. He told me I was brilliant, took me under his wing, mentored me, damn near treated me like a son. I think he believed that helping me was like helping an entire people.
When I married Loretta, we moved from our dorm rooms into a tiny guesthouse on his ten-acre property, situated in the woods about five miles from the college. The grounds were nestled in between acres and acres of sugar maple trees. We would walk over to his chalet on most weekends, as our guesthouse was on the opposite end of the property.
It was at his place that I read and discussed politics with him for hours on end, while Mary, his wife, would work on her essays and Loretta would paint in the little bedroom they had converted into a studio just for her.
I knew Professor Gold would never tell a soul about me, including any Bureau agent who may have come around. Gold was concerned about hiding his own political activity, so he never would have said a word. Luckily for him, the Bureau had no interest in him or his activities—just mine.
“Okay,” Mr. Hoover said on his return, closing the door behind him. “Where were we?”
“You wanted to know why I hadn’t subscribed to the Crisis.”
“That’s right.” He sat down. “Why not?”
I moved from the window back to my chair. “Well, I’ve never subscribed to it because . . . probably . . . or . . . let me rephrase that . . . precisely because during my twenty-five-year lifetime, I’ve never been given a reason to believe I wasn’t the equal of any man, regardless of race.
“Perhaps my mother left Chicago with me when I was five because she wanted to, in some way, shelter me from reality. The Bronzeville streets, though they contain some rough elements, are not as brutal as those in Chicago. Truthfully, I have accomplished every goal I’ve ever set. My life has not been a crisis—no pun intended, Mr. Hoover.”
“Does your own success desensitize you to the struggles of the greater Negro race, assuming you believe that there is a struggle?”
“No.”
“In twenty words or less, define what America means to you.”
“It means unparalleled courage, sacrificed blood, broken chains, and the relentless hope of a united people.”
Hoover sat there for a moment and stared at me. I couldn’t tell if his glare represented a newfound hate for me, a respect for my opinion, or a surprised reaction to the quickness with which I’d responded to his question.
His poker face was impressive. My bold answer about racial equality was likely a death sentence for this potential career, as I had no idea what theories on race Mr. Hoover might have, but at this point I didn’t really care.
As he continued his stare, the desk phone began to ring. “That’s likely the attorney general,” he said. “There isn’t enough time in the day. One minute, Sidney.”
He picked up and it occurred to me just how ignorant I was being. If they wanted to spy on Du Bois, there was no stopping them. And if I turned the assignment down, if indeed that was what my role was to be, there would be some other colored graduate willing to infiltrate Du Bois’s world—someone lacking my loyalty and respect for the scholar—someone willing to destroy him for the right amount of money.
“No, Mr. Palmer,” he said into the phone, “that entire outfit has been turned over to Kirkland. But I can put it back in the hands of Fennison if you feel that Kirkland could be better utilized in Santa Fe.”
Having heard Hoover call Du Bois “dangerous” felt like a call to arms. I could, especially as a covert agent, protect him and his integration agenda from his enemies, including the government. Du Bois surviving would ensure a better America for my unborn children. And if protecting him meant I needed to get inside the beast—the impenetrable beast that had played a role throughout American history in influencing the destiny of our nation—I needed to do it. This relatively new Bureau was part of the innards of that beast.
“You have my word on it, sir,” continued Hoover.
I began to envision the potential spy mission as a sacrifice for Du Bois that only someone with my unique pedigree, intelligence, and beliefs would be able to make. I was also confident that I could outsmart this Mr. Hoover, especially considering we were roughly the same age. Perhaps my biggest flaw was that I’d always believed I could outsmart everyone around me.
He hung up the telephone. “Sidney, the Bureau has never hired a colored agent. Earlier today I interviewed a man by the name of James Wormley Jones, a soldier. Was stationed in France. I may hire him. Do you have any clue as to why I would even consider hiring him as the first-ever colored agent since the inception of our Bureau?”
“No.”
“Loyalty.”
“I see.”
“The Bureau of Investigation wants men who care about what’s in the best interest of America first. Jones obviously understands this—he was willing to die in a war. And I am quite certain that you, in your eagerness to enlist back in 1917, were willing to die as well. I can only imagine the pride these men must feel today as each returns to a hero’s welcome across the country. I didn’t fight in the war. I was already employed at the Justice Department at a very young age and was exempt from the draft. I regret that.
“Fighting in a war,” he continued, “and surviving it, allows a man to brush aside the kinds of regrets a typical man becomes entangled in throughout life—regrets about trivial failures and whatnot. A willingness to die for this nation is the ultimate badge of honor. And I’ve examined the details of your life enough to believe that you possess such a badge.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hoover.”
He began jotting something down. The man had mentioned my willingness to die, and he was right. I’d do so for Du Bois. And had I gone off to war, I certainly would have made a good soldier. I would have tried to show the same bravery that American soldiers from past wars had. Men like General George Washington.
The image of him leading America into battle on horseback was imprinted in my mind, had been ever since I was six years old and Momma had read a story to me about Washington at Valley Forge, then about his exploits throughout the rest of the Revolutionary War. The image resonated with me. I had been fascinated by him ever since.
“You love America, don’t you?” he asked, looking up from his writing.
“Very much.”
Hoover cleared his throat and suddenly took on an even more serious demeanor.
“Two months ago you were quoted in, of all things, an issue of your college newspaper, saying that you believed Marcus Garvey was, quote, ‘undermining the American Negro agenda.’ I actually have a copy of the paper right here.”
He picked it up from his desk, leaned forward, and handed it to me. “Go ahead and skim through it. Take your time and make sure it rings a bell.”
I began thumbing through it, looking for the article. It took me a moment to digest his comment. Wow, I thought, one remark about this Garvey individual had been the impetus behind their bringing me to Washington. This had nothing to do with Du Bois after all.
“Take your time, Sidney.”
I found the article and began pretending to read, trying to collect my thoughts. I’d read this article many times. Loretta had brought it to me, excited beyond words to see my name in print. I did know some things about Garvey. I’d b
een reading about him off and on since he’d arrived from Jamaica in 1916.
He was a powerful orator and operated out of Harlem. I’d read some of his remarks and took exception to his seeming disrespect for Du Bois, who’d been fighting the fight here in the United States, literally, before Garvey was even born. Based on what I’d read, I had myself convinced that Garvey was committed to destroying Du Bois, the NAACP, and everything it stood for.
Garvey’s arrogance and seemingly quick dismissal of too many American colored leaders was upsetting. I didn’t know if he appreciated the unique nature of the Negro American struggle compared with the struggles of coloreds in other countries, including his own.
My dislike for Garvey wasn’t just about his politics but also about his approach to leadership. He was flirting with becoming a demagogue.
Based on what I’d read and heard from others, Garvey detested and was jealous of Du Bois because of his New England background, Harvard education, and close relationships with whites. The last thing our people needed was a conflict between two of its own leaders.
And Garvey would definitely have success if his aim was to rile up angry colored folk. Spying on him for the Bureau would actually mean spying on him for Du Bois as far as I was concerned.
“Yes, I remember making a statement to my college newspaper,” I finally said, returning the paper to him.
“Just how familiar are you with Mr. Garvey?”
“I know nothing about him. I made that remark because a Middlebury newspaper reporter showed me a quote Garvey had made before coming to America regarding light-skinned folks in the West Indies.
“The quote seemed insensitive. I had never heard of Garvey so I flippantly made the remark, knowing that I was two months away from graduation. What I actually said was ‘If Garvey truly has a problem with light-skinned coloreds, that attitude has the potential to undermine the American Negro agenda, especially considering how many people are light-skinned.’ They took my quote out of context.”
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 2
