Clifford's Blues: A Novel

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Clifford’s Blues

John A. Williams

Dedicated to those without memorial or monument

Aguacero

beautiful musician

unclothed at the foot of a tree

amidst the lost harmonies

close to our defeated memories

amidst our hands of defeat

and a people of alien strength

we let our eyes hang low

and untying

the tether of a natal anguish

we sobbed

—Aimé Cesairé, Blues of the Rain

trans. Clayton Eshleman and Annette Smith

Hey Jayson,

September 21, 1986

It’s me, Gerald Sanderson—Bounce—and this stuff is for you. Justine and I are practically just off the plane with it. We were in Europe this summer picking up our daughter who was doing her junior year abroad and ran into this old German guy in Flensburg near the Danish border. Strange story. We stopped not far from where we were going to stay that night so I could take a leak. This guy was there. I couldn’t really understand him, but it seemed that during the war Black American soldiers hadn’t killed him when they could have. He was grateful, but maybe they should have put him out of his misery. I mean, the guy was a mess. He left this box at the desk for us.

Tank suggested we look you up and get this to you, since you’re the only writer we know. (Says you owe him for throwing that block of his that let you score the only touchdown of your life in high school.) I know it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, but I thought this was important enough to say hello with. What you have is a copy. We have the original if you want to see it, but it’s been written on every kind of paper you can imagine—tissue, glazed, schoolkid tablet, wrapping, end pages of books, in pencil, ink, crayon—man, it was a mess to copy. If you even look at the original, it starts falling apart. It had been wrapped in an old smelly raincoat with the rubber dried and cracked off.

You should have seen us coming through customs with it; they probably thought we had 200 pounds of dope. I told customs it was research (I finally did get my master’s in history). They rummaged around, asked the boss, made phone calls, and so on. Man, they make it tough for you to get back home. The Germans, when I told them it was research on Black people in the camps, they were glad to let it go.

Jay, this is a diary written by a brother, a piano man name of Clifford Pepperidge. Played with Sam Wooding, which was way before both your time and mine. Clifford was in Dachau. Yeah, Dachau. We drove there and checked it out. Even now the space—it’s the size of about ten stadiums; I mean it’s huge, and if you include the fringe around it that is now filled with young trees, it becomes a third larger. It’s a museum now. We saw pictures of some other brothers, too. Couldn’t tell if they were us or Africans. Now I wonder just how many other Black people we never heard a peep about were in those places. Dachau must have been a bitch. I can’t imagine what all those other camps were like. The way I figure it is this: the old soldier giving this to us, our knowing you, is a spooky triple play. Old soldier to Bounce to Jay. Not an accident. Maybe a mysterious way.

You know the Benny Golson tune I Remember Clifford, with lyrics by Jon Hendricks? I know it was for Clifford Brown who died in 1956, but when I play it now, I think of Clifford Pepperidge. It would be great if you could do something good with this. I’m not trying to lean on you, it would just be great. Justine sends greetings to you, your wife, kids, and grandkids. I’m told you got a bunch of them. Any of them good ball players? My ball club is going to be weak for the next couple of seasons, and if I don’t get some talent bopping into this school, I may have to teach history full-time. Maybe it’s time for that, anyway. Playing ball doesn’t serve the same function it did when you were a kid or even when I was. It’s all about money now, not teamwork or building confidence. In any case, I know this season my mind’s more on Clifford than anything else and how maybe that bell that rang for him is starting to ring again. I know you know exactly what I mean. For the ball game, except that it isn’t a game.

You should know that we’ve all enjoyed reading your books, especially our daughter, Liz, who would love to meet you. All our best to you and yours. Give me a call when you’ve finished. No hurry; after all, it’s been in the box for forty-one years already.

Sunday, May 28, 1933

My name’s Clifford Pepperidge and I am in trouble. I’m an American Negro and I play piano, sometimes, and I’m a vocalist, too. I shouldn’t be here, but they didn’t pay any attention to me when they brought me. Didn’t listen when I was in Berlin, either. I am in Protective Custody, they call it. They’ve said I’ll be out as soon as they finish their investigation. I hope so. God, I hate this place. As soon as I do get out, I’m hauling ass back home. I don’t care what it’s like. They never did this to me in New York, and until I left Storyville, after they closed it down, I managed not to have anything to do with the John Laws. That’s what back home was all about—playing music and keeping away from trouble because it was always looking for you. Damn. I’d even go back South to get out of here. Any place but here. It could be worse. I could be over in the camp. There’s a sign on the front gate: Arbeit Macht Frei.

Tues., June 7, 1933

I’m a calfactor, a houseboy, and I am stuck here in Dachau with no way to get out. Except that if I’m a good enough houseboy my luck may change. That I doubt since Malcolm, to save his ass, double-crossed me. That’s got to be what happened. Met him after playing in the Schwarze Kater in the Friedrichstrasse. Then he showed up at the Kater and usually sent me drinks. We recognized each other. Well. Malcolm worked at the American embassy. We got to be quite good friends, as he would say. He had a marked fondness for me and I played to it. He had money, lots of it. Even a popular colored entertainer who’d played and sung with the great Sam Wooding didn’t make the money Malcolm already had. Family’s rich. We used to sit around Sunday mornings in silk bathrobes, drinking champagne, trying to figure out who it was we’d brought home with us from Kurfurstendamm, where everyone was good-looking, or from Nollendorfplatz, where everyone was not. It really didn’t matter to Malcolm as long as I was there to join in the fun we always had, although the cocaine was really hard to come by with the Nazis running things.

Hitler became Chancellor, so the Brownshirts made it, and Finck’s Katakombe, where the Shirts used to loiter, has become a very popular place indeed. A-men and Z-men used it a lot. These are agents and squealers for the Nazis. You never knew when they were at a party, until the next day when someone stopped by to tell you that Frankie or Teddy had been arrested with a Protective Custody warrant as a member of an unpopular category. It was getting awful around Berlin; it was getting quiet in the Kater. The spirit was gone from the Friedrichstrasse, the Kurfurstendamm, the Jagerstrasse, the Behrensstrasse; the Conferenciers didn’t make jokes about the Nazis any more, and they introduced the performers with less flair and fancy than they used to. It was like the way it used to be once you stepped across the line from Storyville.

I wanted to get away. I was dreaming of snakes all the time, and anyone from New Orleans knows that when you dream of snakes, you’ve got enemies. But Malcolm didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn. Told me I had nothing to worry about because I was an American and he was an American diplomat. And fool that I was, I believed him. We were still in bed on that Sunday morning when they came and found us naked as the day we were born. That was April 23. Malcolm declared diplomatic immunity. They carried me away while Malcolm was saying, Don’t worry. I’ll have you out soon. He took my passport. I haven’t heard anything from Malcolm since. It looks like I don’t exist. They say the embassy claims it has no record of me. But I was somebody in Berlin. At least I thought I was. So I figure that Malcolm got rid of my passport and the record of my check-ins, and that means I had no contact with him. Of course the cops know different. They arrested me in his flat, but I suppose Malcolm fixed even that. If Almighty God walked into Hitler’s office without signing in, then as far as the Germans are concerned, He did not walk in.

Wednesday, July 5, 1933

The camp used to be a munitions factory, they tell me. Some of the buildings and sheds are still standing. There are nine barracks inside the wall and ten outside. The ones outside are fenced around with barbed wire and are guarded. Almost no trees; a few white birches, I think, and pines. Hot sun everywhere. No shade. They expect to keep 5,000 prisoners here.

Dachau is a labor camp. No one here knows anything. Nobody cares to know anything. Never thought I’d be so close to where I played a couple of dates—Munich, in Schwabing. If I’d had any sense, I would have got the hell out of Germany then, with the Nazis running all over. More obnoxious than in Berlin. Goddamn Bavarians.

I came in a van from Berlin. A long drive, and they let us out only once to piss. Threw bread and sausages in the back. Arrived here midmorning. Seems like years ago, but it’s not quite six weeks. The SA and the SS cursed us out of the van into the sun. Gangs of men in gray uniforms, some harnessed like horses to big rollers and carts, moved back and forth, raising dust; they groaned and grunted. Most of them had red triangles fastened to the right pants leg; others had green, and some of those fellas looked as tough as the robbers and dope fiends in east Berlin. A few wore pink triangles, and when I saw those and looked into the faces of the men wearing them, I knew what was going to happen to me. I couldn’t work like that. I played the piano. I sang songs. Everywhere I looked in those few minutes before my group was called, I saw men working harder than anyone I ever saw working on a chain gang. I started to shake. I couldn’t help myself. Another group was coming out. I tried to read hope in their expressions, but there was none, not on a single face.

We started up five steps. I concentrated on them to keep from shaking so much. My legs were like rubber. The SS were shouting and pushing. I felt a shoulder lean into my own to lend support. The man had gray eyes and a big square face; his eyes were the saddest I’d ever looked into, sad but not afraid. The crush of the group and that shoulder carried me up the steps and inside a room that had as many SA and SS men as there were prisoners. I wanted to holler I’m an American! You’ve made a mistake! You have no right to hold me here!

I didn’t say anything, though. I’d said all this in Berlin, said it in Tegel-Berlin. Didn’t help. Not with these jokers. Every official eye found my face. I shook more. I couldn’t stop. The mass of black uniforms and the swastika armbands simply scared the pure-dee shit out of me.

Then I saw him. I think he saw me first and willed me to find him. It was Dieter Lange, and he had more reason to be here, in a gray suit, than me. He’d been a Raffke in Berlin—a hustler, pimp, profiteer, a regular MacHeath, but his lovers were all men. He was a chicken-plucker who’d always wanted to pluck a black chicken because they were so rare in Germany, and those he saw were already being plucked by someone else. But I was with Malcolm then. Besides, I never went out with men like Dieter Lange.

The officer in charge called us to attention and then read from a paper in his hands. All of us had been charged and convicted as dangers to the state, for hostility and immorality to the state, and would be held here in Protective Custody under Article 14 until further notice. We would be notified when we were considered to be rehabilitated and then released. Achtung! The thing about Germans is, give them a uniform, give them a little power, and they think they’re gods. Yet it was Germans, people like Bert Brecht and Paul Graetz and Joe Ringelnatz, who said I was an artist. I’d never been called that at home, only in Europe. I guess I was so swelled up that I didn’t notice other artists going to jail, being fined, or leaving the country. Hitler said the new art was degenerate. Especially jazz music. Entartete Musik. But I was an American. How could they do this to me?

When the officer called attention, all the SS and SA in the room began shouting and cursing again, turning us, shoving us out of the door, down those five steps, into the hot sunlight. Then we were marched into a smaller building where we had to squat while soldiers sheared our heads. They laughed at my hair, threw it up in the air, examined it. They were so busy having fun that they didn’t notice how much I continued to tremble. Once I saw the man with the sad gray eyes and the great square face. Without hair his head looked like a rock. The floor was inches thick with hair—black, brown, gray, blond, white, straight, curly. In another room, where it was impossibly crowded and everything smelled like vinegar and sweat and stale cigarettes, we filled out forms and listed our belongings and signed papers without having time to read them. In the next room, as we were given uniforms, someone told the soldiers to give me one with a green triangle. It was Dieter Lange.

The SS screamed, called us pigs, bastards, freaks, Communists, crooks, pricks. We peeled off our clothes as best we could and shoved them into boxes and gave them to the guards who gave us the uniforms. Dieter Lange said green again. He gave the man in charge of this business a piece of paper and turned to me. He told me to come with him. The uniform smelled and did not fit, and the SA were kicking me. They told me to go with the captain.

There was a pause like there is just before your fingers come down on the keys, like just before you sing your first note, and it seemed that everyone in the room, prisoners and SA and SS alike, for just a second, looked at me, looked at Dieter Lange. Then I was out in the sun again, Dieter Lange, hands on his hips, looming in front of me. He said I had been detailed to him. He smiled and said, Kind Schokolade, said it softly. Told me not to worry.

Until I was arrested in Berlin and double-crossed by Malcolm, I thought I was an independent person. I learned my music without benefit of formal teaching. Singing came natural to me; it was a way of saying something with tone and word that expressed more than just plain talking. Older musicians, sometimes when they were trying to conceal techniques, or more often tricks, taught me without knowing they were. I could make my way, find a job, find a stoker, if one didn’t find me first. I made mistakes. Malcolm was the biggest. Living in Europe, being considered a strange, exotic creature, gave me, I’m afraid, a sense of being important, and that made me stumble and fall into this snakepit. Maybe it was because of the people I knew and traveled with. Most of them were well-off and didn’t seem to notice that I was a Negro. It seemed that way.

But walking behind Dieter Lange, the dust and the shouts merging somewhere near a point in my head that kept lifting toward a faint, I felt alone as I’d never felt before. That sense of independence—it must have come from what I thought was the kindness of people, or from people who wanted something from me, or from people who didn’t give a damn about me, really—vanished. I was no longer trembling; I was crying. There was Dieter Lange, now a captain in the SS. But then I remembered, back in 1929, the year Paul Robeson heard us play in the Berlin Zoo Roof Garden, Dieter Lange came into the Troika with his swastika armband half sticking out of his pocket, like he was trying to hide his membership in the Nazis. I never laugh at people. I have never been mean to anyone, so I didn’t join in the laughter and the shoving and the teasing. But here he was, now, getting into a car and telling me to hurry because he wanted to fuck me good. I was crying, but I was listening, too.

When he saw me, Dieter Lange said, he’d got one of his friends to give me a uniform with a green instead of a pink triangle because it went hard for queers in Dachau. They were sometimes, if lucky, placed with the political prisoners, the Reds, cutting turf and draining the swamp or working in the quarry, which was worst of all. This way, I was his personal calfactor, his private servant. And he could hold grand parties with me playing and singing and this would get him in good with his superiors. He was the camp purchasing agent—a job with all sorts of possibilities, and he was soon to be in charge of purchasing for other camps that would be opening in a matter of months.

He thought all this was not bad for a better-than-average hustler. He joined the party in 1928 and was accepted into the SS in 1931, about the time he vanished from Berlin. He did it to be on the safe side, and it turned out to be the right move. Dieter Lange was very proud of himself.

(I have just found some extra paper, so now I can finish writing about my first day in Dachau.) The Nazis were growing in power, he said, and there was not a city, town, or hamlet in Germany, and quite possibly Europe, that would not feel that power sooner or later. He said he would make some inquiries for me, see what he could do. I asked how long my sentence was. He said he didn’t know. No one knew. He would have to be careful. It would be wise for me to make the best of a bad situation that could have been worse if not for him. If I was nice to him, he’d be nice to me. He’d always liked jazz music and my singing and playing. He would do his best to look after me. But if I became troublesome, he’d have me back in the camp in a prisoner barracks in a flash. As it was, I could work around his home and help him in the office canteen in the camp. These were good jobs. It had been prudent, Dieter Lange told me, for him to marry. Her name was Annaliese. She went to Munich often, he said, to shop and go to the theater, the things women do, for there wasn’t much going on in the SS quarters and hardly anything in the town of Dachau. She was not demanding of his time or person. She was the daughter of a farmer and considered herself fortunate to have made such a good marriage. She would not be troublesome, for she knew nothing of life, having left the farm only a year ago, which is when Dieter Lange met her in Munich at a rally. He was sure, he said, she had never even seen a real Negro.

Friday, July 7, 1933

God, I’ve prayed all night. Did you hear me, God? How can this be happening to me? I know I didn’t go to church. I know I lived like You weren’t there, like I wouldn’t have to pay my bill to You. Maybe You don’t want to hear from me because of what I am. I didn’t choose to be this way, Lord, You know I didn’t. And anyway, aren’t we all Your children? Isn’t Your Kingdom of Heaven for all of us? Forgive me for what I am. If I could stop right now, I would, but it’s not left just to me anymore, Lord. Would it please You if I killed myself? Isn’t life Yours to give and Yours to take? Please, God, if You didn’t hear me, just read this. Yes, I used to play music on Sunday so people could dance and have a good time, and I drank and took dope, but not out of meanness; for money, yes, to live on or just to have fun sometimes, but not to be mean, Lord. You know I’ve been more afraid than mean. I’ve turned the other cheek a thousand times. I’ve not hurt anyone, because I can’t. Doesn’t Your word say Blessed are the meek for they shall see God? Lord Jesus God, Holiest of Spirits, help this poor Negro so far from home and in the deserts with Satan and the serpents. Don’t forsake me, Lord. Hear me, Oh God! I’ll do anything You want, anything, that I can do. Just give me a sign. Let me know You’re listening or reading, Lord. Or, Lord, is this Your will, visiting trial and tribulation upon Your obedient servant? If it is, Lord, give me the strength to bear this heavy, heavy cross. Thy will be done, Almighty Lord, but why me?

Fri., July 28, 1933

I have written to everyone I could think of, including Malcolm. From America, from France, even Spain, no answer. Of course, Dieter Lange takes my letters and mails them. He says. But I have no way of knowing whether he has or not. Camp regulations allow us to write. A few prisoners have been released, but the parole conditions are severe. One prisoner named Nefzger, Dieter Lange told me, was found dead. The prosecutor from Munich claims he was murdered by the SS guards. Dieter Lange says that’s nonsense. The prosecutor, Winterberger, also claims that three other prisoners—Hausman, Schloss, and Strauss—in spite of what the camp doctor says, may have died from external causes. I think about running away. That wouldn’t be easy. Black skin in pink Germany. Yet Switzerland is only a few hour’s hard driving away, I think. I’d have to walk, I think. So near, so far. Like a blues. Mr. Wooding used to say that was the blues, what white folk called a lament, because what you were lamenting or feeling blue about was what you knew but couldn’t do anything about. So you sang or played, and that helped to make things a little better. That was African, Mr. Wooding said, because you were at least saying things were out of your control. I liked Mr. Wooding, but it was coming to Berlin that was like moving up from darkness into the light. (It pleasures me to think back like this, instead of thinking of right now.) James Europe’s army band certainly brought jazz music to Europe. I wonder where he got that name. Maybe his folks way, way back, after slavery, just made it up, thinking Europe was the farthest place from Jim Crow they could get. He made this place stomp and jazz.

In New York you could say you were a musician, but they weren’t so keen on putting black folks in the limelight, so to speak. They liked all those white mammy singers with burnt cork on their faces. The white companies—Cameo, Paramount, Okeh, Black Swan, Columbia—did record a few colored entertainers, but didn’t pay them much, not even Ma Rainey or Miss Bessie Smith, King Oliver or Louis Armstrong, Kid Orey, Fletcher Henderson, or Duke Ellington. Mr. Wooding’s band was recorded only by European companies, like Parlophone, Pathe France, and the other French company, Polydor. No, didn’t pay as much as they paid white entertainers. There were a few clubs where you could work, but you had to toe the line or those gangsters would put your butt in the street—maybe with holes in it. Sometimes we had to play behind great big palm plants so the customers couldn’t see us.

Most of the clubs were uptown, and unless you were an entertainer of some kind, the most you could do in those places was cook, maybe wait tables, shine shoes, or clean up. But in the end, it didn’t matter if you could shout some blues or boot a rag. You were just a jigaboo, and that’s all there was to it, and all those white swells from downtown couldn’t change things much. Mr. Wooding told me that a lot of times.

Mr. Wooding came out of Philadelphia and got his first band in 1920. Everybody up North had heard of Storyville, but they wanted you to prove you knew what you were doing. I proved it. Mr. Wooding sometimes thought it was more important for him to stand up there with a baton like Paul Whiteman than play the piano. His left hand wasn’t a bear, anyway.

We were playing the Club Alabam one night. At the end of the second set, a white man came up and started kissing everybody (and everybody was watching me when it was my turn to be kissed, because they knew I was a fairy). Turned out he was a Russian looking to bring a colored band to Moscow. Couldn’t hardly talk English. Can’t think of his name now. But that’s how I came to Europe, through that Russian and Mr. Wooding’s band. We left New York in 1924 when I was 24, and we stopped in Berlin to open a revue called The Chocolate Kiddies. We may not have been the toast of the town in New York, but we sure were in Berlin. I was slick and sassy and there were more people like me than I could have imagined, and they were plain with it, right out in the open like I’d seen nowhere else. Ber-lin. For me it was champagne and caviar. For most Germans it was starving and people getting shot by the law every day. There were parades and demonstrations. Communists—I didn’t know much about them then and still don’t—were very busy. There’d been a revolution in Russia and it seemed to spill over into parts of Germany. Their leaders and other people were getting killed, people like Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht or those Spartacus people. Myself, I couldn’t see why it was such a bad thing for everyone to share equally in everything. My friends who had money were angry with the Communists, but in the poor neighborhoods it was a different story. I guess people with money, or who hope to get money, or to keep what they already have, will always be hot with Communists.

I didn’t let all this bother me. I was having a good time. (The band even finally got to Moscow and to France, Spain, Turkey, and Tunisia.) It didn’t matter to me that it took a wheelbarrow full of money to buy half a loaf of bread. I was colored and I laughed because for once whatever was bad wasn’t happening to colored people.

A colored lady who’d been in Paris tried to open a club in Berlin. They called her Bricktop, a light-skinned lady, whose real name was Ada Smith. But her club didn’t last long because her musicians weren’t any good. She just barely got out of Berlin with the clothes on her back. I mean she left town about the same time Florence Mills was playing Hamburg.

You had to be a nightbird in Berlin. Mostly I saw things that made the District back home look like Sunday school. Dope fiends everywhere. You could get cocaine anywhere. They sold it on the street in perfume bottles, whores and pimps like Dieter Lange. The more queer you were, the better they liked you. At the new Eldorado in the Motzstrasse, you couldn’t tell who was a man and who was a woman, but that didn’t make any difference to us or to the high-class Germans who went there. It really seemed to me that there was that thing they called the German Disease, and I guess that was what brought so many pretties from England. But two things couldn’t none of them do was the Charleston and the breakaway.

Admirals-Palast was doing what they did back home with the Ziegfeld Follies and the Folies-Bergère in Paris, with the pussy shows, playing the Tillers, the Admirals, and the Paris Mannequins. Good thing they didn’t pull the bloomers off a few of those dancers. Josephine Baker turned up on a trip from Paris and set Berlin on its behind. There were as many gangs in Berlin—they called them clubs—as there were bands in New Orleans. They were yeggs, footpads, and cutthroats. One of my dearest friends was killed by a gang outside a dive in the Muntzstrasse.

An interruption. It’s the same day. Reading this over, I realized that I’ve said nothing about Frau Lange. She is young and just the other side of thin. I mean, she could get fat. She has blue eyes and blond hair, like a Kewpie. Dieter Lange was right: she’d never seen a Negro except in photographs. She treats me like a pet monkey. I wonder how the world still manages to produce people as dumb as she is. According to Dieter Lange, she thinks it’s perfectly normal for them to fuck every month or two. He doesn’t tell her otherwise.

She touches me often, as though to reassure herself that I am a human being. Twice she has found me crying and she sat with me, not knowing what to do, clucking and saying Shhh! Shhh! She asked about my father, who was killed in a fight in a turpentine camp; asked about my mother, who, when I was eight, disappeared the same time Preacher Pollard did. My aunt Jordie raised me until she died of the TBs, and then the District took over. It seems to me that Annaliese takes a pleasure I can’t describe in watching me. She is very proud of Dieter Lange. Why not? As purchasing agent for the camps in Bavaria and part of the Palatine, he can get everything she wants and maybe never had before—food, liquors, clothing, cigarettes, French wine and perfume, furniture—the cellar is filled with it. The kitchen shelves are packed tightly with cans of everything. This bitch has probably never seen so much in one place in her life. But Dieter Lange travels a lot. When he’s gone I have to stay in a rear room of the canteen and go to his house in the morning and return to camp at night. I think Frau Lange is not happy with that, judging from the exuberant greetings she gives me when I report in the mornings. She does not seem to like being alone.

The man with the square face and the sad eyes who lent me his shoulder is a Red, a political prisoner. The red triangle is for Communists and anyone else the government doesn’t want running loose. Some are people who just don’t like the Nazis—and made the mistake of saying so out loud. The prisoners may shout Heil Hitler when the guards are around, but when they aren’t, what they whisper is more like Kiss my ass, Adolph. Werner, the man with the square face and sad eyes, like most politicals, has an indeterminate sentence. He encourages prisoners to be strong. They are making the place bigger, because prisoners are coming in every day. This means Dieter Lange must purchase more food, clothing, and building materials, plus the luxuries it seems the SS must have.

Sun., August 13, 1933

It seems that I am a luxury in more ways than one to Dieter Lange. He has plans for me. I will help him advance his career. He will have parties and invite his friends and superiors. In spite of what Hitler and Goebbels say about jazz music, Dieter Lange says, nearly everyone who has ever heard it likes it. Of course, he would only invite those who did. They will be wonderful parties, he says, with me playing and singing, just like in a cabaret. What else can I do? Looks like he can find all kinds of ways to use me, and I can’t do a damned thing about it. Nothing. That made me think to ask him, again, if by chance there was any mail for me or if there had been any word about how long my sentence was. There was no mail, he said, and nothing about my sentence, of course, because he’d be the first to tell me about that. I don’t believe him, but what can I do? Who can I complain to? Werner said he would try to get some word out, but that I shouldn’t be too hopeful. Bert Brecht, he told me, had left Berlin and was probably on his way out of Germany. I asked how he knew, how he managed outside contacts, and he said prisons were just like other societies; some things continued to function in spite of restrictions.

Once he said that, I could see it. Of course! Doesn’t life go on for colored people back home, North and South, in spite of Jim Crow and prejudice? When I am in the camp late in the afternoon, and when roll call and the evening meal are over, I see the men sitting on benches outside the barracks talking softly, their washed clothes hung on lines behind them to catch the last sunlight. The intellectuals are together. Werner is among them. There are even prisoners who are Nazis; they cling together. They must have broken some party rule. And there are some army officers, too. In all, there are ten companies of