A motley group of counterdemonstrators teemed behind the nearer police line, facing the empty street between them. A mix of anti-Nazi factions—labor unions, WWI veterans, Zionists, Hebrew fraternal associations, Trotskyites and several generic factions of socialists—all rudely contended for the crowd’s allegiance. People fluidly surged up and down the line like gawkers at a circus midway. They’d briefly take in a speaker, who mainly seemed interested in attacking the other protesters, then excitedly drift on.
The police riot squads pushed backward, their arms linked into a human dam, braced against the emotional tide. Their feet scrabbled for a grip on the slippery pavement, sealing off the hotel. By now, both lines of blue were slowly shifting into squiggles from two angry crowds thudding against them in waves.
Behind the lines of cops demonstrators assaulted each other from the safety of the “barricades,” lobbing eggs and rotting vegetables at the other side. Mounted patrolmen rode the empty street. Their broad, mostly Irish faces were red with anger as they ducked the slime from the flying produce dripping on their caps. A vastly larger group of spectators hovered farther up the block, passively gaping at the fuss. Enraged screams and insults pierced the crowd’s deafening rumble.
It’s all so very familiar, Hawkins thought, that quality I’ve seen so often before. Chaos. Fear. Anger. Hate. Crowds nearly out of control. The flamboyant, belligerent gestures of men who knew they were actually safe from harm. The new world was catching up to the old. Fascism was no longer something that happened somewhere else.
No getting into the hotel through there, though. Hawkins doubled back around and headed up Lexington Avenue. Two smaller rallies blocked the back entrance. Then he spotted his chance. A small group of patrolmen stationed on the corner were pushing the crowd back, keeping the street partially open for deliveries.
Hawkins positioned himself on the Forty-Ninth Street curb. A few minutes later a milk van slowly rounded the corner. He lightly stepped onto its back bumper. The police missed him in the turmoil, waving it through. But the crowd spotted him with a raw, angry howl—“Nazi shitface! You’ll eat it when the workers take charge!”
A pair of eggs splattered against the side of the van. Hawkins ducked, flinching. He checked his trousers and relaxed. Missed. Good.
The milk van sharply veered right, tires screeching and dove into the service entrance. Hawkins jumped off the back at the last second, running up the street, pushing into the crowd. Ahead, the group of imitation storm troopers blocked the hotel entrance. They’d taken it upon themselves to check all the tickets.
Hawkins quickly scanned the crowd. Near the end of the line loitered a hatless, scruffily dressed man badly in need of a shave. A ticket stub showed in plain view in his shirt pocket.
Hawkins bumped him, plucking the ticket from his shirt. Then he pushed the man and cried to the brownshirts near the door, “Helfen Sie mir! Schnell!” Time for a little theater, Hawkins thought, maybe a little mock German, too, just for their benefit. Play it up, look wide-eyed, astonished. To think anything like this could happen on the streets of Manhattan!
The heads of six muscular late-teenage boys with whitewall haircuts and imitation SA caps swiveled toward him. Their narrow eyes locked onto the ruckus. The scruffy man pushed Hawkins back, grabbing for the ticket, shouting, “Hey, you prick!”
Hawkins waved at the storm troopers.
“Dieser Mann—” Hawkins stopped and gasped, twisting to keep the ticket out of the man’s reach. “Dis Mans tryen mein Ticket zu stehlen.” Hitler wasn’t the only one who could use the Big Lie technique.
The would-be storm troopers saw exactly what Hawkins wanted—a respectable German businessman in an expensive suit being assaulted by a shabby prole. Probably a red. One American Nazi sympathizer with a five o’clock shadow was about to learn the importance of wearing a tie in Midtown.
Indignant, the man shouted, “Hey, buddy!” and took a swing at Hawkins. He ducked and reflexively swung back, his fist snapping the tip of the man’s nose. The cartilage buckled under Hawkins’ knuckles, breaking the veins. With a heaving gasp, the man blew blood out his nostrils. It covered his shirt, speckling the pavement with red. Enraged by the sight, he made the mistake of lunging at Hawkins the instant the brown-shirted bullyboys arrived.
Locked arms outstretched, the brownshirts rammed into the man like a pack of linebackers, blocking his blow, knocking him down. They must have smelled the blood. Punched him to the ground. Chased him with kicks. Sweaty excitement beaded their faces. He crawled in a circle on the sidewalk. Trying to protect himself with his hands, he recoiled from each blow, scrabbling on his side with his elbows and knees, desperately trying to escape. He began incoherently crying—“GAW! HAWL!”
Is he crying “God”? Hawkins wondered. “Help”? Can’t tell. In seconds part of the man’s shattered jaw dangled uselessly from one side of his bloody face. Pink bone protruded from crimson muck.
The man’s spinning on the ground brought him in a circle back around. The storm troopers turned to Hawkins, laughing, giving him a gentle nudge. Your turn! He looked at their faces. Expectant. Eager. Filled with high spirits. Laughing. An overpowering urge overtook Hawkins. It was as if something or someone else were controlling his legs. Or he was viewing himself from afar. Stepped forward. Slammed in a hard kick. As it sank into the man’s chest the pressure forced a low, gurgling scream from his throat. A pair of ribs gave and splintered like an old basket under the toe of his shoe.
Ear-piercing blasts of police whistles rent the air. The crowd was shoving and struggling around them, frantically trying to get clear. Two of the brown-shirted thugs grabbed Hawkins and shoved him forward, shouting, “Get in!” racing him for the safety of the crowd bunched by the door. The mounted officers galloped up, their horses’ hooves protectively straddling the crumpled form quivering in the growing pool of blood. The cops furiously spun around over him, eyes white, shaking yard-long riot batons at Hawkins’ “rescuers.” Scattered teeth gleamed on the pavement like broken icicles.
At the door, for a split second, Hawkins glanced back at the man, then the brownshirts. They were snickering, the expression of men who knew they’d gotten away with it. Started to laugh, too, a little bit, because they were laughing. Then he caught himself and froze.
What? What am I doing?
Shouting, “Get out of here! Quick!” the brownshirts threw him into the front entrance.
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Hawkins spun through the revolving doors into the lower lobby. His body shook in a silent cry of relief as the air-conditioning washed over him. The rancorous din outside fell to a muffled murmur as he sped past the gilded Corinthian columns. In the quiet he stopped.
What’d I do that for? I had his ticket.
But then—No. No other way. Couldn’t have simply taken the ticket. He’d have fought back. There’d have been a scene, questions.
So why kick him? Hawkins queasily remembered W’s injunction. “We’re not to harm any Americans. Even if they’re Nazis.” God. Three days in the country. Already breaking the rules. The risk. Could’ve killed that man for a stupid ticket.
Shivering now, he ran up the stairs. In the main lobby, all gilt and green marble like a tabernacle, the high holies of hostelry, the noise disappeared altogether.
Hawkins rounded the corner to the Grand Ballroom and stopped dead. On the great room’s stage, above a speaker’s platform covered with red, white and blue bunting crossed a large pair of American flags. Between them hung a Nazi swastika banner covering half the wall.
Such a huge flag, like Nuremberg. The swastika seemed to vibrate and spin in place, dominating the room with savage energy. Under it, between the two American flags, stood a long portrait of George Washington in uniform, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
The victors had come to accept their tribute.
An official approached.
“Good evening. Your name?”
“Roy Hawkins.”
T
he official gave him an overly broad, unctuous smile, like a church usher on a Sunday morning.
“And what firm are you with?”
With great effort Hawkins tore his attention away from the swastika. “United Specialty Valve Company.” He handed the official his new business card. They’d decided to stick to a subject he knew.
The man walked a few paces with him, scribbling on a little piece of paper. Then he gently slapped it on Hawkins’ lapel. Hawkins’ eyes dropped down to the gummed label bearing his name and alleged company and then up, glaring at the man. He brightly smiled back.
“Just to get acquainted.” Hawkins nodded, grinding his teeth. “I’ll put your name on the guest list.” The man dropped out of sight. Hawkins ripped off the name tag, crumpled it up and threw it on the floor as vehemently as if he were tearing down the swastika flag.
Up front the red-jacketed orchestra began segueing into “America the Beautiful.” A small knot of men leapt to their feet, shouting, “Knock it off … knock it off … we don’t wanna hear any of that!” Low, baying boos rang through the hall.
The bandleader stiffly pivoted as if mounted on a turntable, his mouth a round hole in a face almost as bright red as his jacket. The baton kept flicking up and down like a mechanical toy. The booing started afresh.
“Play something else … we don’t wanna listen to Jew music.”
By now the catcalls were getting really loud. The conductor protectively hunched his head down into his shoulders, trying to stare them down. All over the ballroom people began climbing on chairs to watch, alternately perplexed and horrified by the booing. Would the hecklers up the ante?
But they didn’t have to. The conductor spun around and rapped his baton on the top of the music stand. The orchestra instantly stopped. A second later it jumped to a new tune. The hecklers shut up.
The noise brought another wave of people surging into the hall. Hawkins floated along on the tide, searching for a seat. Then he spotted a familiar face.
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Special Agent in Charge Mike Kelly. Fifty feet away. Kelly must have had a long day. Crinkly blue-black bags ringed his eyes. He still sported the same badly rumpled, sodden suit he’d been wearing that morning.
Kelly coyly slipped up to a nearby knot of men who’d been booing. He studiously examined them, then darted away. By cupping a small pad of paper in the palm of one hand and a short stubby pencil in the other he could read each name tag and then surreptitiously record the information. There were obviously many names on his little pad. It seemed a rather indiscriminate if ominous form of police work.
Hawkins quietly walked up next to him. “I hope you’re being paid by the hour, Kelly. It’s a big hall.”
The agent’s head jerked around, face winding up in annoyance. “Jay-sus Christ, Hawkins! Not so loud!”
“Sorry. Do you want mine? I took it off.” He bent over and read Kelly’s name tag. “Mr. Jones? Laying pipe today, I see.”
“No, I don’t think so,” dropping his hands, laughing, “but I’m gonna get every other bastard I can.”
“What the hell was that a minute ago?”
“What? You mean the song? Oh, they claim it was written by a Jewess. Big conspiracy. You know the type.”
“I see.” Cautiously, “You think there’s a conspiracy?”
“Who, me? Naw! Those guys are assholes. Great song, everybody loves it. Who gives a rat’s ass who wrote it? That’s the real spirit of America. Nobody gives a shit. No, I’ll tell ya where the big conspiracy is. All these Reds out in Hollywood. They’re wormin’ in there, trying to take over show business. The movies are a powerful thing. Ya know what I mean?” He faced Hawkins, earnest, worried, lightly pressing his fist into Hawkins’ sleeve, an apostle possessed by a great epiphany. “Real power, the movies. Get everybody thinking crazy. Stir up trouble. We gotta do something about that. The Reds we got back here? They’re nothing. Bunch’a threadbare garlic eaters down in places like the Village, that’s all. Folk dancing, ugly modern pictures—you know, the painted kind—and yak, yak, yak all night about socialism. That’s all they do. And swill cheap red wine. What a fuckin’ waste of time.”
“Folk dancing?”
“Uh-huh. Like old-timey barn dances country rubes use’ta do. Only from Polack-type countries. They love that stuff down there. Hold hands, stamp around in a circle, drink cheap Dago wine.”
“You’ve been down there.”
“Oh yeah. Christ …”
“Take your wife?”
“She’d hate it. Her folks worked like hell to get out of there. And I’m bustin’ my butt to get out of here.”
“To Hollywood?”
“Hollywood. Then Washington. That’s the way to get promoted. Catching Commies taking over movie studios. We got a big operation settin’ up out there and I wanna get in on it. That’s how ya make a name for yourself. Not tailing friggin’ garlic breaths from one ugly paintin’ show to the next.”
“I know how you feel.”
Kelly eyed Hawkins suspiciously, like a gold miner spotting an approaching claim jumper. “Yeah?”
“Know where I was before?” Kelly shook his head. “Paris. They pulled me out, transferred me here to follow him around,” gesturing toward the stage. As Hawkins’ confidence sunk in, Kelly’s face relaxed in surprise at the resentful tone. “You ever been to Paris?”
“No. Ya only dream about going ta’ places like that.”
“Righto, you only dream. But I was there.” Hawkins pulled out his pipe, fiddled with it a moment, lit it up. Kelly got his pack of Lucky Strikes and lit one off Hawkins’ Dunhill lighter.
“Is it as nice as they say?”
“It’s better. Cheap, too. Dollar goes a long way.” He fished a photo out of his wallet. “That’s Marie Chevalier and me on the Quai Voltaire. That’s the Pont du Carrousel and the Louvre in the background.” Kelly soaked the picture in, obviously impressed, then handed it back to Hawkins.
“She your wife? Girlfriend?”
“No. Neither. She tried to brain me with a champagne bottle when I told her I had to leave.”
“I’m sorry. Damn.”
Hawkins glanced at the photo, then crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor. “The hell with it.”
“Was there a promotion in it? The transfer?”
“That’s where the action is, over there. This chap?” Hawkins diffidently shook his head toward the stage. “You’ll never find garlic on his breath but he’s not exactly the main chance either.”
“Yeah, I get it. No. Not the main chance at all.” Kelly shrugged, then sighed sympathetically. “What can I say? That’s government work for ya. Some wanker in an office decides to yank your balls and that’s it.”
“I’m sure Hollywood’ll make a good impression on your wife.”
“You bet’cha.”
The music paused, then the orchestra swung into “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again.” The crowd noise abruptly rose. Cheers roared through the ballroom as the familiar voice filled the room.
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“Hiya, folks, Walter Ventnor here! How ya all doin’ tonight?”
Hawkins stood, carefully applauding, then rose on his toes trying to see with the rest. With a small wave, Ventnor began speaking in a soft, round voice crackling with continual amusement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, America’s a land that admires winners so this is a real happy night tonight ’cause we’re gonna celebrate some really big winners.” An anticipatory wave of applause rose from the crowd. “Yessir, folks, Germany’s turned the page of history’s big book and a new era’s emerging all over the world. The question is, is the United States going to be a part of this new world, or is it going to be left behind?”
He gripped the podium with his arms straight out in front of him, confidentially bending forward slightly. As he talked the expression on Ventnor’s face began subtly shifting away from simple amusement to a smirk. It was a very jejune smirk, bursting with high-spirited adolesce
nt contempt.
“You know, folks, those snobs up there in Hyde Park—you know the ones I mean—the president and our First Lady, yessir. They and their ilk came stomping into our nation’s capital a few years ago acting like they owned the place. But they don’t own the place. We do! Reg-u-lar Americans!
“And reg-u-lar Americans don’t want any part of this New Deal government the Roosevelts and their culture-vulture friends are creating. Nope. What reg-u-lar Americans want is for government to leave them alone so they can take care of themselves.”
Kelly snorted. “That’s not what they say when they call my office.”
But the crowd heartily applauded Ventnor’s line, whooping and baying.
“Take this Social Security nonsense. Now most people aren’t looking for the Roosevelts—excuse me—the Rosenfelds—and their big-deal New Deal government to stick their big noses into their family affairs. They’ll take care of their parents themselves. They’re saying …”
The crowd loudly joined in with a mooing whoop, “Mind your own business!”
Hawkins leaned into Kelly, “Do you think Roosevelt will win or lose?”
“Not my job to think about that,” Kelly said.
People were gathering impatiently on the dais. Ventnor tightly gripped the podium, hurrying on, eyes darting back, hogging more time. “And that’s the same reason reg-u-lar Americans don’t want the Rosenfelds sticking their long liberal noses into European affairs. Folks, we’ve got to get going on building Fortress America. That’s what we really need, an impenetrable air and sea wall over the Atlantic. Why’d we come here in the first place? To get away from Europe’s problems, that’s what! No, folks, we need to mind our own business and think of America first …” With an eager rush the crowd chimed in, “America last and America always!” followed by a huge wave of applause.
Ventnor wound up, glancing over his shoulder with an ingratiating smile. “And now it’s my pleasure to introduce the man we’ve all been waiting for, a representative of the winners who took a beaten Germany, reorganized it with awe-inspiring efficiency and in seven years brought it from bankruptcy to total victory. Ladies and gentlemen, my friend, Dr. Hans Ludwig.”
New York Station Page 10
