All Blood Runs Red

by Phil Keith

  Westchester County District Attorney George Fanelli (later a New York State Supreme Court judge) issued a complete whitewash of the affair two days later in a report sent to Governor Thomas Dewey. Despite direct photo evidence to the contrary, some of which landed on Dewey’s desk the next morning, Fanelli’s report claimed that Robeson’s coterie had been responsible for initiating the violence that occurred and that the police had used admirable restraint.

  Several days after Fanelli’s report surfaced, Robeson and his followers organized a march on Albany. Over three hundred people gathered outside Dewey’s office door. The rattled governor refused to meet with any of the leaders, proclaiming that they had been organized and the violence initiated by “Communists.” Civil lawsuits were filed against Westchester County and the veterans groups who had participated in the disturbances. None of them were successful, and by three years later all twenty-seven of the lawsuits had been dismissed.

  The adventures in Peekskill, plus the later bus trip that half blinded him, left a very bad taste in Bullard’s mouth. He knew that racism and Jim Crow were still very much alive in his native Georgia, but to have seen the outpouring of pure hatred in the North, especially among American veterans, was a stunning blow to his hopes for a more enlightened United States—or at least something echoing his beloved France.

  * * *

  Bullard made one more journey that turned out not to be what he had hoped. In early 1950, he began to wonder if returning to France might be possible. With his daughters grown and married, he looked once again to the beacons of the City of Light.

  With much anticipation, Bullard returned to Paris in late 1950. His old friend “Frisco” Bingham had survived the war, during which time he had been interned in Paris and constantly watched by the Nazis. The old Jamaican and former trench fighter, like Bullard, had been a very popular dancer and club owner before the war. He, too, had mentored Josephine Baker as well as Bricktop. The two old comrades were overjoyed to see each other, and Frisco invited Bullard to stay with him as long as he wished.

  Bricktop was back as well. A number of her old friends and club-goers from the halcyon days had pooled some cash and gotten her back in business, with her own eponymous club, in Montmartre. Unfortunately, the tables were not full, the action was not robust and the rich folks—those who were left anyway—were not pursuing the old prewar lifestyle. Whether Bricktop’s would survive was an open question. (It did not.)

  As soon as he settled in with Bingham, Bullard began a campaign to recover his old properties. When he walked away in 1940, he had simply shuttered the gym and club. He had not sold either business, but neither had he taken precautions to protect his interests. His old pal Henri-Robert, the eminent lawyer who had helped both Zelli and Bullard untangle the byzantine French property and nightclub laws, had passed away in 1936.

  Over the ensuing years, other “owners” had popped up, or they were at least operators willing to possess and fix up the abandoned properties. They were given a sort of “squatter’s rights” first call on assets which made it hard for former owners, like Bullard, to establish a valid claim. After all, in the old Gallic sense of “loyalty,” the squatters had at least stuck around and toughed it out.

  Bullard filed petition after petition, claim after claim, but got nowhere. Neither did he have the financial resources—or the contacts—to endure indefinitely the expensive process of trying to reestablish his rights. The best he could do, and it was certainly better than nothing, was to get the rejuvenated government of France to recognize his valiant sacrifices and battle awards. Such recognition entitled him to a very modest second pension as well as a small lump-sum payment to use on “housing,” which would be applied to the rent of his Harlem apartment.

  After several months of wearying and expensive legal battling, Bullard knew when he was beaten. He could also see that the atmosphere had changed. Paris was no longer a favored destination for postwar Americans, and the feeling was mutual as far as the citizens of Paris were concerned. The Era of de Gaulle was firmly entrenched and France was already forgetting, in its stiff-necked pride, that America had saved their bacon not once but twice. With reluctance, Bullard said his goodbyes and returned to Spanish Harlem and the only family he had left.

  * * *

  Bullard would not live in France again, but he was not through with the Continent just yet, thanks to Louis Armstrong. In the early 1950s, his friend from L’Escadrille days needed an advance man to help arrange the entertainer’s European bookings and travel. Bullard’s facility with French and German—plus a smattering of Italian—was of great help to Satchmo and his entourage. And in New York, during recording sessions, Bullard revived his drumming skills to help out as a studio musician during rehearsals when Armstrong’s regular drummer was not available. Gene can still be heard on some of Armstrong’s early 1950s recordings, such as the tape made at the Dunbar Hotel in Los Angeles in 1951, in particular, on track 4, entitled “Baby Don’t Baby Me.”2

  Working with the ebullient genius of Armstrong was a joy, but Bullard could do it for only a couple of years. He hop-scotched the country with Armstrong in 1950 and ’51, making travel arrangements for the group and sometimes sitting in on jam sessions as well as recording studios. He went on a couple of trips to Europe with Satchmo but the grind of extensive travel was too much for his rebelling body, so the aging warrior set about searching for less strenuous work.

  He would not turn up his nose at any legitimate, steady position, and that was why he responded to an offer suggested by an old buddy and took on the job of being one of the elevator operators at Rockefeller Center. The original fourteen buildings of the complex were constructed in the 1930s in what remains the largest totally private building project ever attempted. The elevators were state-of-the-art for the time, but they were not yet automated. They still needed human operators to tend to the many passengers and respond to the buzzing requests made thousands of times per day.

  Bullard was assigned to 10 Rockefeller Center, the building that housed, among other tenants, the newly popular television phenomenon, The Today Show. He showed up for every shift on time and ready, and was, in all respects, a model employee. His only quirk, and one that went on for years, was that he would usually wear one or two of his many wartime medals on his neatly pressed elevator operator’s uniform. If nothing else, it was an opportunity for Bullard to engage his many passengers in gentle repartee as they flew up and down the elevator shafts. It helped to pass the time.

  It would also lead to one final brush with fame.

  * * *

  1 Lloyd, Eugene Bullard, 138.

  2 Louis Armstrong House Museum Online Catalogue, tape number 1987, 3.0131, 2016.

  26

  RECOGNITION AT LAST

  Although America never seemed to want to know much about its homegrown hero, France never forgot him. Eugene Bullard was, and would always remain, far better recognized in his adopted country than the land of his birth.

  One example of this was an invitation extended, in 1954, to Bullard and a group of American veterans who had fought for France. Those who were invited had all their expenses paid to attend a ceremonial relighting of the eternal flame in honor of France’s Unknown Soldier. The flame burns underneath the Arc de Triomphe (still) and on display there is an iconic photograph of Bullard and several other old soldiers relighting the flame and laying a wreath at the base of the flame over sixty years ago. Bullard wears a long trench coat adorned with his medals, and he is also wearing a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses. He had not worn eyeglasses at all until his unfortunate encounter with the pugilistic bus driver in Peekskill in the early ’50s.

  A final and personal high-profile honor recognizing Bullard’s life and his service to France was not bestowed upon him until his sixty-fourth birthday, October 9, 1959. On that day, the French Consul in New York, Raymond Laporte, pinned the Legion of Honor to
the suit coat of a beaming Eugene Bullard. The flashy medal and ribbon represent France’s highest honor. The award had originally been proposed for Bullard in Paris in 1933. The malignant Dr. Gros had still been around, however, which made bestowing this singular honor impossible. Later in that decade the war intervened, and the proposal languished until revived by friends of Bullard’s, in Paris, in 1959.

  The ceremony elevating him to Chevalier (Knight) of France was attended by his proud daughters, many friends, and the actor Charles Boyer (who had also been active in France Forever). A number of his old pals from the Lafayette Flying Corps and the Foreign Legion showed up as well. The day was topped off by a champagne party hosted by Violette Marzan, a wealthy French socialite in New York, who had served as a nurse in General de Gaulle’s First French Army during World War II.

  Bullard offered a few remarks at the ceremony, and his concluding thoughts, delivered in French, were: “I have served France as best I could. France taught me the true meaning of liberty, equality and fraternity. My services to France can never repay all I owe her.” A reporter from the New York World Telegram who covered the ceremony asked Bullard to sum up his many accomplishments. He replied, “You might say I touched all the bases. Not much more you can do in sixty-four years.”

  * * *

  Any newspaper columnist would be thrilled to get a twenty-seven-year contract, and if any columnist did, it would be very rare. One of the most famous First Ladies in American history, Eleanor Roosevelt, actually had that opportunity. From December 30, 1935, to September 26, 1962 (two months before her death at age seventy-eight) Mrs. Roosevelt wrote a syndicated column for ninety newspapers that were read all across America and reached over four million people a day. It was called “My Day” and in roughly five hundred to one thousand words she waxed eloquent on any subject that struck her fancy. Mrs. Roosevelt never kept a private diary, but “My Day,” in effect, became a very public one. Many columns were serious, others were much lighter. She covered thousands of themes and many hundreds of topics.

  On October 31, 1959, Mrs. Roosevelt’s “My Day” reported (in part):

  NEW YORK—A very interesting little ceremony took place on October 9 at the office of the Consulate General of France in New York City. On this occasion Eugene (James) Bullard, the grandson of an American slave, was made Chevalier of the Legion of Honor of France... In World War I he enlisted in the Foreign Legion and then transferred to the 170th Infantry, and he was later the first Negro aviator.1 He was a member of the French underground during World War II... I think we in America should be proud of this man who now lives in our country after his long service to the French and the France he loved.2

  Upon publication, this warm, chatty column made its way to her four million readers. It was the first time in all of Eugene Bullard’s sixty-four years that he was turned into something like a household name. Eleanor Roosevelt’s voice was a powerful one, and if she said it, people believed it. It did not necessarily create a groundswell of interest in Bullard, but it certainly created some national recognition for an accomplished African American whose life and adventures had been too long overlooked.

  * * *

  That same year, Dave Garroway was a forty-six-year-old television host at the height of his fame. Every weekday morning the enormously popular program The Today Show, headquartered in Rockefeller Center, and entering its ninth year, placed him in front of, and had him heard by, millions of Americans. Those who watched and listened saw a bright, beaming, ebullient man who projected a positive energy about life in America. Only a handful of his closest friends and associates knew that Garroway’s broadcasting success could sometimes be undercut by the chronic depression that he had suffered his entire life. Unhappy events could make the depression worse, and Garroway was, in 1959, coping with such an experience.

  One of his most popular co-hosts, and a personal friend, Charles Van Doren, the plucky Columbia professor with the engaging smile, was deep in controversy and up to his eyeballs in scandal. Van Doren had risen to national fame as the long-running champion of one of television’s all-time hit quiz shows, Twenty One. His run had been the most successful ever, and he had knocked off another longtime champ, Herb Stempel, to gain his title. Viewers tuned in by the millions to watch these brainy titans battle, and when Van Doren defeated Stempel, they continued to watch as Van Doren knocked off one smart challenger after another.

  There was only one problem: it was all rigged. The producers of the show were later to admit they had provided Van Doren with some of the questions and answers in advance. Ironically, it was Stempel who unveiled the scheme in a jealous fit over having been kicked off the show. Even more astonishingly, it was also revealed the producers had given Stempel many answers, too.

  Garroway was devastated by the news, not only with concern for a friend, but by proxy for his own show, which Van Doren had co-hosted many times. It seemed like Today and Garroway were being tarred by the same negative brush although they had nothing to do with the Twenty One debacle.

  At 7:30 a.m. on Wednesday, December 16, Garroway and his producer were rushing for the elevators at Rockefeller Center, headed upstairs to the Today suite for a production meeting. The men stepped into elevator number three, the one manned by Eugene Bullard that particular morning.

  Garroway had a certain casual familiarity with the friendly, bespectacled colored man in his neatly pressed Rock Center uniform. They had ridden up and down together hundreds of times over several years. Garroway had also grown used to seeing Bullard’s uniform decorated with one bauble or another, usually a pendant of some sort festooned with a multihued ribbon, much like a military decoration. He automatically—and wrongfully—assumed that these doodads were membership badges for some fraternal organization or another, or perhaps commemorative pins for one of the many colorful “Negro marching bands” or societies that were popular in Harlem.

  As usual that December morning, Bullard greeted the popular host with his patented smile and a cheery hello: “Good morning, Mister Garroway.”

  “Good morning, Gene. How are you?”

  “Fine, sir, just mighty fine. And you?”

  “Excellent,” Garroway responded automatically, without a second thought.

  Something was different that morning, though, and the fine-tuned reporter’s sense that Dave Garroway had so carefully nurtured over the years was tinkling little alarm bells in his brain.

  Bullard closed the doors and moved the levers necessary to start their ride up to the Today floor. Garroway had subconsciously noticed that the operator was wearing a new medal on his jacket, and one that seemed vaguely familiar to him. The pendant ribbon was singular, bright red, and suspended from it was an emerald green laurel wreath and below that a striking Maltese Cross accented with more laurel branches and a circle circumscribing dual French flags.

  It was dazzling, quite beautiful, really, and in the back of his mind Garroway thought he knew what he was looking at, but equating what he believed it might be with the modest man beside him working as an elevator operator didn’t quite make sense.

  Squinting, Garroway began, “Gene?”

  “Yes, Mr. Garroway?”

  “What’s that you’re wearing on your uniform?”

  “Why, it’s the Legion of Honor, Mr. Garroway. It’s France’s highest decoration. I was awarded the medal just a couple months back.” Bullard beamed slyly, knowing he was creating the exact dumbfounded expression in Garroway he had hoped to inspire.

  “How did you...?” Garroway caught himself. Where he was headed was, “How did you, a seemingly undistinguished black man zipping up and down in an elevator, probably earning not much above minimum wage, get such a decoration? Did you find it in a pawn shop?”

  Fortunately, instead of being so condescending, Garroway paused long enough that Bullard began to fill in the blank: “I was in the Great War, Mr. Garroway. And the second war, too. I fough
t at Verdun, among other places. Flew combat, too. Shot down a couple of Boche planes, I did.”

  “Wait. Stop,” Garroway commanded.

  “Here? Between floors?”

  “No, no, I meant, stop pulling my leg. Who the hell are you? What are you doing driving an elevator?” The questions built up in Garroway’s head and started tumbling out, too excited to stay tucked inside.

  Bullard chuckled and replied, “Well, sir, it’s a long story.”

  “I want to hear it. And I mean now. Can you come with us, to my office?”

  “But who’s going to take my shift, Mr. Garroway?”

  “Never mind that. I’ll ring the building supervisor. Soon as you hear from him and get someone to take your place, you come to my office, okay?”

  Puzzled, Bullard could only say, “Sure, Mr. Garroway. Soon as I can.”

  An hour later, a relaxed and bemused Eugene Bullard was sipping coffee with Dave Garroway, the Today producer, and two assistants who frantically scribbled notes.

  “So how many medals did you say you have, Gene?”

  “Fifteen altogether now, Mr. Garroway, with this one,” Bullard responded, pointing to the Légion d’Honneur pinned to his jacket.

  “Can you bring them with you, on the show?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  In the previous minutes, Bullard had agreed to make an appearance on The Today Show. Garroway was over the moon with the idea, fascinated that he had found a truly outstanding story right under his nose—in the company elevator, no less. It was bound to be a hit with his audience and the potential positives had helped lift his black mood.