“No, sir. He might sit for a month or a year. Or forever, if he is hurt badly enough. I can do nothing until and unless he wills it. No one can.”
Despondent, Fritzi said, “Thank you, Doctor. May I leave my telephone number? Please call if there’s an emergency, or any change at all. B.B. is very dear to me.”
“He returns the feeling,” Gerstmeyer said as she wrote the number on a pad. She reacted with surprise. “Oh, yes, he’s mentioned you many times. I assure you, it isn’t loss of memory immobilizing the patient. It’s the world in which Mrs. Pelzer perished and he failed to save her. He wants no part of that world anymore.”
Next morning Hobart began filming Upper Crust, a drama in which he played the well-heeled father of a society girl. The actress engaged for the role of his daughter was a short, dark-haired ingenue named Gloria Swanson. She was so outrageously good-looking, Fritzi was plunged back into a familiar funk of inadequacy. She recovered when Hobart invited her to lunch with Miss Swanson and she discovered that little Gloria was a humorless person fixated on her own appearance and career. She tried to compliment Fritzi, but it was plain she thought comedy contemptible, or at least far beneath a serious actress like herself.
Afterward, Hobart drew Fritzi aside. “You still feel strongly about the Lusitania matter, do you not?”
“Strongly doesn’t begin to cover it.” Sophie Pelzer’s cruel death had driven her from a remote interest in the war to a passionate conviction that Germany must be defeated, very likely with U.S. intervention. She might be alienated from her father forever if she took that stand, but principle had to prevail. The General had run his life that way, and he had taught his daughter well.
“The local Preparedness League has organized a parade and rally downtown on Saturday afternoon,” Hobart said. “I intend to march. Will you come along?”
“I certainly will if Eddie can release me.”
“Splendid girl.” Hobart swept her into his arms for a hug.
Three hundred marchers gathered in front of Morosco’s Globe Theater on South Broadway. It was a mixed crowd of suffragettes, academics, scruffy bohemians, Socialists, students, and little old ladies from temperance societies. Hobart handed her a placard on a stick.
ARM NOW!
The HUN
Must Be
STOPPED!
Fritzi hoisted the placard and swung into line beside Hobart as a five-piece marching band led off, blaring “The Battle Cry of Freedom.” She waved her placard in rhythm with the music.
Because the afternoon was cool and gray with a promise of rain, she’d put on a rather plain skirt and jacket of Scotch tweed, a white linen shirtwaist, and white ascot-style tie. She’d chosen her hat carefully: a large black silk sailor whose wide brim drooped all around, partially concealing her face. Though she wanted to march, she wasn’t overly keen on attracting attention personally, and she thought the hat would help. She was naively wrong. The parade hadn’t gone a block when a ragamuffin on the sidewalk pointed at her. “Look, it’s Nellie from the pitchers.” Soon a small crowd was following her.
Hobart saw her concern. “Nothing to be done, dear girl, you’re famous. I should imagine they’ll want you to say a few words at the square.”
“Oh, I can’t possibly—”
“Of course you can.”
“I’m not prepared.”
“Yes, you are. You’re intelligent, you have strong feelings about recent events—if you have doubts, think of Pelzer.” A shiver chased up Fritzi’s spine. Without realizing it, she was on a path that had taken a sharp turn.
They paraded up Broadway to Second, west to Hill Street and south again toward the public square at Sixth. The band played “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Just below Fourth a crowd of rowdies outside a saloon called Wittke’s Old Bavaria began to hoot and throw rocks and mud from the gutter. A white-haired professor two ranks ahead staggered when a rock grazed his forehead. A splat of mud soiled Fritzi’s hat. More rowdies tumbled out of the saloon. One lobbed a bung starter at the marchers; the bass drummer knocked the flying stick away.
A man yelled at Fritzi, “Hey, you red slut, stick to your pictures.” He threw a piece of red brick. Hobart cried, “’Ware!” jostling her aside. On the curb a man seized the brick thrower and punched him. The brick thrower knocked his assailant’s hat off. Disgusted, Fritzi marched on as the opponents scuffled.
At the public square the marchers crowded together under the eyes of a few bemused bums and wine-heads. The president of the Preparedness League did indeed ask her to step up on the soapbox platform to say a few words. “Please,” he said, holding her hand as she picked up her hem, “take off your hat so they can see you.”
The sight of Fritzi’s long face and frizzy blond locks touched off applause. She waved her muddy hat for silence.
“All right, you know who I am.” The crowd laughed and she smiled. “But in marching with you today I’m just another American citizen. I’m here because I lost a dear friend on Lusitania. To attack a civilian ship was a crime, the act of a heartless government. I don’t want to involve American boys in a foreign war, but we can’t stand by and allow the Hun to destroy freedom and trample on everything that’s right.” The words came swiftly, up from the depths of her emotions.
“My heritage is German”—someone booed, someone else hissed—“but I have no sympathy for a country that callously takes the lives of innocents. By the last count, ninety-four children perished when Lusitania sank. Ninety-four babes and adolescents with no sense of the evil of which grown men are capable. Their lives were full of hope for a happy existence in the care of loving parents. What was their portion? Try to imagine it. Sheer terror as they were dropped into a cold and churning ocean with no warning, no sense of how to save themselves.”
All her training, the many auditions and tank town performances, seemed to find a focus in this moment. Her voice built steadily. Under gray clouds with wind tossing her blond hair, she spoke with passion.
“Imagine them in that bitter sea, their minds on fire with fright as they sink once, then struggle, only to sink again. Their lungs burn. Vainly they search for their parents, but they see only strangers who are drowning as they are.” The crowd listened in rapt silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we must stand fast against those who would consign children to that kind of hell. We must compel such men to end their slaughter and sue for peace. We must throw our moral strength behind the Allies, but the gesture will be meaningless if we do not at the same time demonstrate our strength. Not long ago I was too busy to pay attention to this war. Then, as events forced awareness on me, I decided we should take no part, spend no money, risk no American lives. I have changed my mind. I believe we must have funds for our military. We must have training for our men. We must recruit thousands to swell the ranks and prepare to show the Hun we are ready to intervene if those who kill children without mercy refuse to kneel at the altar of humanity and confess their crimes. If they will not come to that altar willingly, we must force them. And there is only one way we can accomplish that. We must prepare.”
She flung her hand over her head, fingers spread like an exhorting preacher.
“Prepare. Arm ourselves. How many more innocents must die while we hesitate and argue? Sound the cry.”
She clenched her hand into a fist.
“Preparedness. Preparedness now.”
Shaken, she closed her eyes. What she said next—“Thank you”—was barely audible.
Flushed, she jumped off the soapbox. She hardly remembered half of what she’d improvised; it had all come in a rush. But it had stirred them. They whistled and cheered. Hobart hugged her:
“Marvelous, dear girl, simply marvelous. All those great ladies whom you worship would be at your feet if they heard it. You never gave a better performance.”
“I meant every word.”
“Of course you did,” he said as the crowd broke up and they slipped away. “I do wonder how Kelly will take it.
Being Irish, he would never help Britain.”
“Perhaps he won’t know I spoke. He took Bernadette to Yosemite.”
“If someone else had made the speech, it’s possible he would never hear of it. But you are Fritzi Crown. It might be wise to remember a word you used. Preparedness. Be ready for him.”
82. Troubled Nation
Paul’s ship, Caronia, crossed without incident, though with marked strain on her passengers because of Lusitania. He checked into the Hotel Astor on Times Square and telephoned his American publisher, the Century Company, arranging to meet his editor at the offices on Union Square the next day. While he was out shopping for a new shirt, a call from his lecture agent invited him to dinner.
Actually, the caller was his agent’s widow. Bill Schwimmer, the energetic founder of American Platform Artists, had collapsed and died of heat prostration in the summer of 1914. Marguerite Schwimmer was a pale Nordic woman of German extraction, striving to be tougher than any male competitor. She slapped Paul on the back when she met him at Lüchow’s. She wore black trousers and a boxy double-breasted black jacket with cravat. He had never seen Marguerite in anything frilly or pastel.
They drank beer under one of Lüchow’s indoor trellises lit by colored lanterns. “How are you, kid?” Marguerite said. It amused him, since she was his age. She swore enthusiastically and smoked cigarettes constantly, to the dismay of head waiters and others in public. “Any second thoughts on the title of the lecture?” She’d cabled the same question to England. “The auditorium manager in Minneapolis wired yesterday. He thinks ‘Atrocities of War’ is a terrible title, it will keep people away. Sure you won’t change?”
Paul relit his stubby cigar. “I’m sure.”
“Well, you may be in for rough sledding. The farther west you go, the more they like Germans.”
“Then I should be a hit since I’m German.”
“So am I, but I keep it quiet. I’d call myself Marguerite Smith if I hadn’t printed so goddamn many letterheads and calling cards.”
“Look, Marguerite, the truth’s the truth. The kaiser and his gang are a bunch of maniacal militarists, and they’re conducting this war like butchers. I can’t understand why the German people follow them so devotedly, but they do. The whole lot of them have to be called to account.”
“Dutch, I’m warning you, that kind of sentiment isn’t popular or unanimous over here. Don’t be fooled by the Eastern papers. There’s still a big split in this country. Hell, some people are saying our State Department’s to blame for Lusitania because they didn’t warn people to stay off Cunard and White Star!”
“Therefore I’m supposed to tone down the lecture?”
“I’ve booked a fine tour, Dutch. First-class venues. If you want to revolt and alienate your audiences, it’s up to you.” She flashed a sour smile. “Of course, I have an interest. I’d like to keep APA in the black.”
Paul slid his hand into the pocket of his unpressed jacket, touched a medal Michael had given him in London. He damn well ought to show Marguerite Germany’s cruel commemoration of the Lusitania disaster. On second thought it would just prolong an argument. The medal celebrated the “victory” with jingoistic slogans and grisly images of a grim reaper and a sinking ship.
“Let’s talk about something nicer,” she said. She licked her rouged lips with the tip of her tongue. “Would you like company at your hotel? I’m paying for this meal, but that’s hardly a proper welcome for the weary traveler.”
A schoolboy blush rose in Paul’s face. “Marguerite, you flatter me. But I’m still married.”
“God, you never change. I hate men with principles. So fucking superior.” A passing waiter blanched and nearly dropped his tray.
In a tight two-inch Arrow collar with points, tight detachable cuffs, and a tight suit, Paul stood in the tight white circle of the carbon arc. His podium was set by the proscenium, stage right of the screen. Marguerite had booked him into the famous old Academy of Music on Fourteenth Street.
Only a few pale, oval faces were visible to him in the front rows and boxes. He spoke into darkness while images of the trenches flickered across the screen in tones of gray.
“I must warn you about the concluding footage. I filmed it in Belgium last summer. To prevent discovery by the Germans I hid in a hayloft with my camera.”
The field appeared, the half dozen hostages and their executioners.
“If the pictures are too harrowing, please turn away. I assure you this is real. This is the face of the enemy who threatens democracy wherever it exists.”
As the first bayonet stabbed into the first victim, Paul heard gasps. Someone in the gallery cried, “No.” A man in the third row dragged his wife to the aisle and left. Others stood in the orchestra, gathering their wraps.
And this was pro-British New York.
The scene ended. The projection lamp darkened. Paul was left alone in the arc light. Unnerved by the exodus, he started his brief closing remarks, an exhortation to the audience to look clearly at the question of U.S. intervention. He declared an urgent need for it, but he stumbled over the words from his note cards and finished weakly. The curtain came down to feeble applause.
In the wings the stage manager congratulated him in a halfhearted way and disappeared. Paul went to the dingy dressing room. Marguerite was supposed to be waiting. There was no sign of her; the doorkeeper said he hadn’t seen her. After twenty minutes Paul trudged across Fourteenth Street to Lüchow’s. The restaurant’s noise and good cheer depressed him. He left his meal unfinished and walked back to the Astor in a drizzle that turned the pavement into a reflecting mirror splashed with bright colors. He was weighted by an inescapable feeling that he’d failed.
The next day, only a few reviews of his presentation appeared. The Sun’s commentary was typical:
Seldom has an hour and a half contained so much that is grim and unhappy, if not utterly repellent. Scenes of the German army at its daily duties, while authentic and picturesque, resemble almost any army anywhere, and add little to our understanding of the European conflict.
The final effect of the presentation is a pervading sense of ugliness. The concluding sequence showing the murder of six Belgians cannot be described in a newspaper which goes into the home.
Cinematographer Crown, unquestionably talented, courageous, and sincere in his purpose, has misjudged his American audience. “Atrocities of War” may fairly represent the reality of the current struggle, but it is not popular entertainment, and should not be presented as such in a country which is not involved as a belligerent.
At the box office on Saturday, over forty patrons showed up with tickets and insisted on refunds.
Paul started west by a southern route. Between lectures in Baltimore and Richmond he called at the White House with an extra print of the bayonet execution. He asked to see the president, thinking his credentials as a successful author would get him in. A staff man turned him away; the president had no room on his appointment calendar anytime soon.
Charleston, Atlanta, New Orleans, the dusty cities of Texas—managers of the halls greeted him with little enthusiasm. Every night people walked out. Others groaned or booed. German-American societies sent demonstrators who heckled and tried to debate him as he spoke. In San Antonio someone threw a sack of rotten vegetables from the gallery. It fell short and two orchestra patrons threatened a lawsuit. In Houston someone stole every projector lamp, and the evening was delayed an hour and a half; by then he had twenty people in the audience.
Cities along his northerly return route, including Minneapolis and Des Moines, telegraphed cancellations, which Marguerite forwarded without comment. Paul grew testy and drank more beer than was good for him. He decided the problem wasn’t so much that his listeners thought the Germans were saintly; it was the way he stubbornly hewed to what Wexford Rooney had taught him years ago in Wex’s photography salon in Chicago. Wex said pictures must tell the truth unsparingly. Michael was right, in these divisive times
there was such a thing as too much truth. He heard street-corner musicians playing a new hit song of the hour—“I Didn’t Raise My Boy to Be a Soldier.”
When Paul’s train arrived in Los Angeles, he was met by a stout bowlegged Englishman, well up in years but wearing an atrociously youthful chestnut-colored wig. Paul knew about Fritzi’s friend Hobart Manchester; he had spoken to his cousin over a rattling long-distance wire from Arizona.
“Fritzi is terribly sorry she couldn’t come in person, dear boy,” Hobart said as they walked to the baggage car for the film boxes. “They’re shooting her circus picture on a merciless schedule. Success has its penalties as well as its rewards.”
Paul asked a porter to arrange to send the film boxes directly to Clune’s Auditorium. Hobart cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “If I may make a suggestion, why not send them to your hotel?” Before Paul could interject a question, he continued, “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Paul. Your program has been canceled.”
He felt like he’d taken a body blow. “I want to talk to the damn theater manager.”
“We can certainly go there if you wish,” Hobart said, nodding. “I have my automobile parked close by.”
Rumpled and fatigued, Paul felt a consuming anger. Under the marquee of Clune’s downtown, he took his cap off and scratched his head, noticeably gray now except on top. A bill poster was mixing water in his bucket.
One Night Only!
“ATROCITIES
OF WAR”
Illustrated Lecture by
PAUL CROWN
News Camera-Man &
Author “I Witness History”
The bill poster’s long brush slathered paste over the type in a way that was almost insulting. Up in the manager’s office, Paul confronted a nervous secretary, and an inner door tightly closed.