I Remember Me

by Carl Reiner

  The work of these self-appointed “commie hunters” was not in vain. They supplied our government’s House Un-American Activities Committee with names to subpoena for their witch hunts—names that would insure healthy press coverage. Led by committee head Congressman J. Parnell Thomas, many prominent Hollywood writers and directors were subpoenaed and asked to answer unconstitutional and possibly incriminating questions. By invoking their constitutional rights and refusing to respond, they thwarted Representative Thomas’s plan to humiliate them, but he did succeed in having a group of these left-wing intellectuals sent to jail. The newspapers dubbed them “the Hollywood Ten.” and the cast list included Dalton Trumbo, Herbert Biberman, Edward Dmytryk, Ring Lardner Jr., John Howard Lawson, Adrian Scott, Albert Maltz, Alvah Bessie, Lester Cole, and Samuel Omitz.

  In his biography, Ring Lardner Jr. wrote that the hours of intellectually nourishing conversations they had, plus the pleasant treatment they received from their jailers, made their incarceration almost tolerable.

  These small pleasures were unexpectedly heightened when they next crossed paths with Representative J. Parnell Thomas. This time they met not as inquisitor and defendants but as fellow convicts. The senator had committed a federal crime, for which he received a sentence longer than that of the men he had prosecuted and persecuted. It was reported that the Hollywood Ten treated the facilitator of their incarceration with more civility than he deserved.

  What worried me most about my visiting G-men was not knowing what they knew about my wife’s political activity. Before we met, Estelle had been active in the struggles for workers’ rights, civil rights, and racial equality, and she had once subscribed to the Daily Worker. After we married, her role as wife and mother took precedence, and her involvement in radical politics lessened. Truth be told—and I daresay this is the perfect time and venue for it—I first learned about the Major League’s blacklisting of Negro ballplayers by reading a sports column by Ted Tinsley in a 1947 edition of the Daily Worker. It was there I learned of the exploits of Satchel Paige, Josh Gibson, Cool Papa Bell, and of the existence of a young player, Jackie Robinson, the first black athlete hired to play for the Montreal Royals and later for their parent team, the Brooklyn Dodgers.

  These thoughts were in my head as I walked into the living room—or was it “the lion’s den” I was walking into?

  “Gentlemen, sorry to keep you waiting,” I said, bounding in. “How about some coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” they answered in unison.

  “I wasn’t offering, I was asking if you had some,” I joked. “You guys woke me before I could put up a pot.”

  They both smiled and actually apologized for the early visit.

  “Apology accepted,” I said cheerily. “So, now that I’m up, what can I do for you?”

  “We just have a few questions, Mr. Reiner.”

  Their first question actually made me blink. It’s not the kind you would expect the FBI to ask first thing in the morning. This may sound like I’m making it up, but the following is an almost verbatim account of their interrogation and my reactions.

  “Mr. Reiner, I see you are registered in the American Labor Party, is that right?”

  They can’t ask me that, I thought. We have a secret ballot. But I smiled brightly and snapped back, “Yesiree! That’s my party!”

  “And we understand, Mr. Reiner, that you voted for their candidate, Henry Wallace?”

  “I sure did!” I said proudly. “Didn’t you?”

  “May we ask why?” one of them asked, neither agent reacting to my audacious question.

  “Because he was the best candidate.”

  “Why do you think that, Mr. Reiner?”

  “Well, for one, he was Franklin D .Roosevelt’s vice president,” I spoke up forcefully, “and he’s also a very successful businessman—owns and runs a large strawberry farm. He’d make a great president. Hope you guys voted for him.”

  The two FBI agents were glancing at one another during my defense of Wallace and then hit me with: “Mr. Reiner, are you aware that there are commies in your television industry?”

  I cocked my head, smiled, and thought of how best to answer this blunt but not unexpected question. My inquisitor misinterpreted my blank stare and added, “By commies, of course, we mean communists, reds.”

  “Communists, of course, I knew that! I just didn’t expect that question.”

  “Well, you’re a pretty successful performer and have been on TV for quite a while,” the agent pressed on, “so I imagine that you must have worked with a communist or two—”

  “Oh, yes, I would say so,” I said confidently.

  “Good. Mr. Reiner, can you tell us the names of these people?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” I answered, smiling sincerely.

  “And why can’t you?”

  “Because I don’t know who they are,” I explained. “Communist actors don’t go around telling you that they’re communists. Oh, I know there are communists in our industry; everybody knows that—they’re in every industry, but they would be pretty dumb to rat themselves out—and they sure as hell are not dumb.”

  I had risen to the occasion and delivered an award-winning performance. They may not have believed me, but they did drop the subject. However, they were not finished. They had a whole new set of unexpected and unsettling questions for me to try to parry.

  “Mr. Reiner, in 1947,” he asked, reading from a note pad, “do you recall hosting a charity event to raise money for veterans of the Spanish Civil War and to honor a Dr. Philip Barsky?”

  “Do I recall that? You don’t forget one of the most exciting nights of your life!” I answered forthrightly. “I was on fire that night!”

  My exuberance had taken them aback. My decision to be the most cooperative, least hostile witness they had ever investigated was paying off. Four arched eyebrows and a short exchange of glances told me that I was on the right track.

  “Mr. Reiner, do you recall how you came to host that event?”

  “Well, I had the lead comedy role in a Broadway show, Call Me Mister—the cast were all former members of the Armed Forces—and someone in the show invited me to emcee this charity event. I don’t remember who that was.”

  I did remember, but I was not about to help them seek out and pester another honest, law-abiding citizen.

  “And to be accurate,” I continued, being helpful, “I did not host that event. I was actually the emcee.”

  “Well, Mr. Reiner, as the emcee, were you aware of why Dr. Barsky and these Spanish Civil War veterans were being honored?”

  “No, not until someone filled me in,” I answered. “On the way to the event, I learned that these veterans of the Spanish Civil War were the surviving members of the fifteen hundred American volunteers who joined a group called the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. They, along with volunteers from many European counties, joined with the Spanish Loyalist Army to battle a rebel army let by General Francisco Franco.”

  “So you became aware of what you were asked to be a part of?” they asked simply.

  “Yes, and I was also aware that General Franco had invited Hitler and the German Luftwaffe to bomb Spanish civilians, and that if there were more brigades like the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, we might have avoided the Holocaust and World War Two.”

  I had not intended to wax tutorial but, heartened by the weird effect I seemed to be having on my visitors, I decided to do go for broke. When I finished, they would either applaud me or handcuff me.

  “Do you know,” I continued smugly, “what some people called those American volunteers? Premature Anti-Fascists! And do either of you know who Dr. Barsky is?”

  “Yes,” one of the agents answered, “Dr. Barsky was a known communist. Did you know that?”

  “No, but do you know why they were honori
ng him?” Without waiting for a response, I barreled on to explain why all of us, including my two inquisitors, owe him a debt of gratitude. How Dr. Barsky, a young thoracic surgeon, had volunteered to perform life-saving operations in crude, makeshift battlefield hospitals. With the aid of a jeep’s engine, he had learned to harvest the plasma from blood, a process used in ensuing wars to save the lives of countless servicemen wounded in battle. The more I chattered on, the less able I was able to discern whether I was impressing or depressing them. In making my case, did I ruin theirs? One of the agents held up his hand, indicating that he wanted to say something. I hoped it was Thank you for your cooperation, have a nice day, but instead it was another hardball that, thankfully, was right in my wheelhouse. I managed to hit this one out of the park.

  “Mr. Reiner, what you’ve told us is all very interesting, but we don’t think you have been quite honest with us. You have not told us the real reason you appeared at that event.”

  When I dropped my head and sighed, they thought they had me.

  “You got me!” I sighed, feigning contrition. “I didn’t tell you the real reason because it’s—well—embarrassing.”

  “You might feel better if you told us why you agreed to emcee that left-wing event.”

  “Because that left-wing event,” I continued, smiling sheepishly, “was being held at Carnegie Hall—the greatest concert hall in the world! Every kid in show business dreams of playing Carnegie Hall one day. Well, I can’t sing or play the violin or piano, so when this opportunity came along, I jumped at the chance to stand on that great stage. I didn’t care what the event was. I tell you right now, if the FBI ever holds a benefit at Carnegie Hall, I’m your guy! I mean it—and you know where I live!”

  That did it. They smiled, thanked me for my cooperation, slid into their black sedan, and drove off.

  I am happy to report that since that unnerving morning a millennium ago, no one has knocked on my door and asked me if I knew any commies.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Subdue the Rattling

  There is something rattling around in my head, and unless I address it, the annoying rattle will distract me from concentrating on “R.T.T. Deeply Loved I.S.,” the chapter I am preparing to write next.

  The rattle relates to an appearance Mel Brooks made on The Tonight Show, way back when Johnny Carson was its host. The memory of the laughter that exploded from me when Mel delivered a blockbuster of a punch line has lasted till now.

  I am aware that it will probably not have the same effect on you, but I will tell it to you about it anyway. If it does not make you laugh out loud, my guess is that it will make you smile broadly.

  On one of Mel’s many appearances with Johnny Carson, Johnny was fascinated to learn of Mel’s knowledge of fine wines and of his extensive and expensive collection of rare classics. Impressed with the depth of Mel’s oenological interests and his passion for wine, Johnny asked, “Mel, are you capable, as some connoisseurs are, of being blindfolded, sipping a fine wine, and then telling us its color, its vintage, and what company bottled it?”

  Mel, proud of his discerning palate, grabbed the mask, placed it over his eyes, and commanded, “Start pouring!”

  Johnny brought forth a bottle of red wine, poured a small amount into a stemmed glass, and handed it to Mel. Mel then deftly swirled the wine around in the glass, brought it to his nose, sniffed it, took a small sip, let the wine sit on his tongue, swallowed it, and announced, “What we have here is a classic red wine, a heady Chateau Haut Brion, 1944.”

  The audience was poised to applaud, but Carson shook his head and said, “No, it’s not that.”

  “Not a Chateau Haut Brion, Johnny, or not a 1944?”

  “Neither,” Johnny assured him.

  “Hmm, I don’t understand…wait!” Mel said, holding up his hand. “You may be right. Let me have that wine glass.”

  Mel then took a second sip and with utmost confidence offered, “It is not a heady Haut Brion, and it is not a red wine—it is a fruity pinot blanc ’51, a white wine.”

  “No, Mel.”

  “Not a white—wait a minute—wait a minute!” Mel said, taking another sip. “Is this beer? Did you slip me a beer in a wine glass? This is beer, isn’t it? A Bud Light!”

  “No, Mel, it is not.”

  “A Miller Lite?”

  “It’s not beer!”

  “Not beer?”

  Mel then took another sip and asked, “Is it Chiclets?”

  Johnny and the studio audience roared with laughter, as I imagined the whole country did at the inability of a great connoisseur to discern the difference between a vintage red wine and a cube of sugar-coated gum.

  Did I guess right? Are you smiling broadly?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  R.T.T. Deeply Loved I.S.

  This is a love story. Not only did R.T.T. deeply love I.S., but R.T.T. loved many people, and many people loved him. I.S. are the initials of my dear wife’s brother-in-law, Ira Shapiro, the father of George Shapiro, my nephew-in-law and theatrical manager. George is one of the finest human beings I know, so fine that I have to restrain myself from making this piece about him. He deserves a chapter of his own and, unless he commits a heinous crime or forbids me to write about him, I will keep my options open.

  R.T.T. was our pet German shepherd, who we called Rinnie. He was named after Rin Tin Tin, the most popular canine movie star of his day. I am happy to say that our Rinnie had a long and full life, so full and eventful that I felt a need to document it.

  Besides Ira Shapiro, Rinnie had great affection for my wife, Estelle, my son, Robbie, my daughter, Annie, me, and for a short time, our youngest, Lucas.

  Rinnie was born in 1955 and passed away in 1968. He came into our lives because Robbie, who was six at the time, had fallen in love with the star of a black-and-white television show, The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin.

  Our family had just moved to New Rochelle, and my wife and I had decided that the only thing missing to make our new, split-level home complete was a dog. When Robbie heard this, he screamed, “A Rinnie dog! Get a Rinnie dog!”

  My wife and I agreed that a German shepherd was perfect, as we would be getting both a pet and a watchdog. No one was more excited about bringing a dog into the house than I was. Estelle and her family always had dogs in their lives. My father, being a watchmaker who worked at home in our small, three-room apartment, never entertained the idea of owning a dog or any pet.

  I had once found a tiny kitten on the street and brought it home. It was the first and only pet I ever had. I had asked my mom if we could keep the “kitty cat” and she answered with a noncommittal, “We’ll see.”

  I felt that my mother saying “We’ll see,” and then feeding the kitty cat a scrap of liver boded well. A few moments later, kitty cat hopped up onto on my father’s favorite chair, deposited a neat mound of liver-based poop on the seat and kitty was back in the street.

  I had never owned a pet for more than half an hour, so I was more thrilled than anyone in our family about bringing a dog into the house. I immediately contacted a farm that bred German shepherds. It was located in Pound Ridge, a two-hour ride upstate. My wife suggested that I wait for the weekend, when the whole family could be involved in picking out our new pet, but I could not wait. The breeder had informed me that only two pups were available and that he had potential buyers for them.

  Estelle questioned the wisdom of my driving up to Pound Ridge at this hour, but I felt it would be worth it just to see Robbie’s face light up when he saw a Rin Tin Tin lookalike dash into the house.

  I was met at the farm by a charming man who made a point of introducing the puppies’ parents to me. These animals were mighty impressive—their coats were shiny, their markings were distinctive, and their ears stood upright. The breeder then took me to where the weaned puppies were kept a
nd said, “Take your pick—or take the one who picks you.”

  Had I ever seen a six-week-old German shepherd pup before, I would not have been so disappointed. These two pups looked nothing like the handsome animals I knew they would become. When I saw their droopy ears flopping up and down, I knew exactly what Robbie would say—and he did say it: “That’s not a Rinnie dog!”

  I sped home with information about the heritage of our pup, who was now curled up in the back seat. I kept reaching behind me to pet his droopy ears and to keep him informed. “Hey, Rinnie, just a few miles more…”

  I kept calling him Rinnie, even though I knew that on his pedigree papers he was dubbed, Blake of Dornwald and was sired by the impressively named Pfeffer Von Berne.

  When I arrived home, the family was gathered in the den, ready to welcome their new dog. Annie was smiling and clapping her hands when the puppy bounded in, and a disappointed Robbie reacted as I knew he would. “That’s not a Rinnie dog!” he complained. “He’s not a German shepherd.”

  Annie 6, Rinnie 1, and Robbie 8

  I insisted that he was, but Robbie kept alluding to his droopy ears. “Rin Tin Tin’s ears stand up,” he whined. “His ears are hanging down—he’s not a shepherd!”

  The poor kid was in tears, and nothing his mother or I said would convince him that when the dog was a little older, his ears would stand up. I told him that I met Rinnie’s mom and dad, and their ears stood straight up, but Robbie would not be consoled. As far as he could see, I had brought home a mutt!

  After six weeks, one of Rinnie’s ears stood up, but it was not until the morning my son awoke to see a “two-standing-up-eared dog” walk into his bedroom that he accepted our pup as being a bona fide Rinnie dog.