George was touched. ‘I’m lucky to have people who worry about me,’ he said. ‘I know that.’
Greg squeezed his arm and left quietly.
George stood in line with the others at the window and bought a ticket to New Orleans. He walked to the blue-and-grey bus and handed over his bag to be loaded in the luggage compartment. Painted on the side of the bus were a large greyhound and the slogan:
IT’S SUCH A COMFORT TO TAKE THE BUS . . . AND LEAVE THE DRIVING TO US.
George got on board.
An organizer directed him to a seat near the front. Others were told to sit in interracial pairs. The driver paid no attention to the Riders, and the regular passengers seemed no more than mildly curious. George opened the book his mother had given him and read the first line.
A moment later the organizer directed one of the women to sit next to George. He nodded to her, pleased. He had met her a couple of times before and liked her. Her name was Maria Summers. She was demurely dressed in a pale-grey cotton frock with a high neckline and a full skirt. She had skin the deep, dark colour of George’s mother’s, a cute flat nose, and lips that made him think about kissing. He knew she was at Chicago Law School, and like him was about to graduate, so they were probably the same age. He guessed she was not only smart but also determined: she would have to be, to get into Chicago Law with two strikes against her, being both female and black.
He closed his book as the driver started the engine and pulled away. Maria looked down and said: ‘
To Kill a Mockingbird.
I was in Montgomery, Alabama, last summer.’
Montgomery was the state capital. ‘What were you doing there?’ George said.
‘My father’s a lawyer, and he had a client who sued the state. I was working for Daddy during the vacation.’
‘Did you win?’
‘No. But don’t let me keep you from reading.’
‘Are you kidding? I can read any time. How often does a guy on a bus have a girl as pretty as you sit down next to him?’
‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘Someone warned me you were a smooth talker.’
‘I’ll tell you my secret, if you want.’
‘Okay, what is it?’
‘I’m sincere.’
She laughed.
He said: ‘But please don’t spread that around. It would spoil my reputation.’
The bus crossed the Potomac and headed into Virginia on Route 1. ‘You’re in the South, now, George,’ said Maria. ‘Are you scared yet?’
‘You bet I am.’
‘Me, too.’
The highway was a straight, narrow slash across miles of spring-green forest. They passed through small towns where the men had so little to do that they stopped to watch the bus go by. George did not look out of the window much. He learned that Maria had been brought up in a strict churchgoing family, her grandfather a preacher. George said he went to church mainly to please his mother, and Maria confessed that she was the same. They talked all the way to Fredericksburg, fifty miles along the route.
The Riders went quiet as the bus entered the small historic town where white supremacy still reigned. The Greyhound terminal was between two red-brick churches with white doors, but Christianity was not necessarily a good indication in the South. As the bus came to a halt, George saw the restrooms, and was surprised that there were no signs over the doors saying
WHITES ONLY
and
COLORED ONLY
.
The passengers got off the bus and stood blinking in the sunshine. Looking more closely, George saw light-coloured patches over the toilet doors, and deduced that the segregation signs had been removed recently.
The Riders put their plan into operation anyway. First, a white organizer went into the scruffy restroom at the back, clearly intended for Negroes. He came out unharmed, but that was the easier part. George had already volunteered to be the black person who defied the rules. ‘Here goes,’ he said to Maria, and he walked into the clean, freshly painted restroom that had undoubtedly just had its
WHITES ONLY
sign removed.
There was a young white man inside, combing his pompadour. He glanced at George in the mirror, but said nothing. George was too scared to pee, but he could not just walk out again, so he washed his hands. The young man left and an older man came in and entered a cubicle. George dried his hands on the roller towel. Then there was nothing else to do, so he went out.
The others were waiting. He shrugged and said: ‘Nothing. Nobody tried to stop me, no one said anything.’
Maria said: ‘I asked for a Coke at the counter and the waitress sold me one. I think someone here has decided to avoid trouble.’
‘Is this how it’s going to be, all the way to New Orleans?’ said George. ‘Will they just act as if nothing has happened? Then, when we’ve gone, impose segregation again? That would kind of cut the ground from under our feet!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Maria. ‘I’ve met the people who run Alabama. Believe me, they’re not that smart.’
3
Walli Franck was playing the piano in the upstairs drawing room. The instrument was a full-size Steinway grand, and Walli’s father kept it tuned for Grandma Maud to play. Walli was remembering the riff to Elvis Presley’s record ‘A Mess of Blues’. It was in the key of C, which made it easier.
His grandmother sat reading the obituaries in the
Berliner Zeitung.
She was seventy, a slim, straight figure in a dark-blue cashmere dress. ‘You can play that sort of thing well,’ she said without looking up from the paper. ‘You’ve got my ear, as well as my green eyes. Your grandfather Walter, after whom you were named, never could play ragtime, rest his soul. I tried to teach him, but it was hopeless.’
‘You played ragtime?’ Walli was surprised. ‘I’ve never heard you do anything but classical music.’
‘Ragtime saved us from starving when your mother was a baby. After the First World War I played in a club called Nachtleben right here in Berlin. I was paid billions of marks a night, which was barely enough to buy bread; but sometimes I’d get tips in foreign currency, and we could live well for a week on two dollars.’
‘Wow.’ Walli could not imagine his silver-haired grandmother playing the piano for tips in a nightclub.
Walli’s sister came into the room. Lili was almost three years younger, and these days he was not sure how to treat her. For as long as he could remember, she had been a pain in the neck, like a younger boy but sillier. However, lately she had become more sensible and, to complicate matters, some of her friends had breasts.
He turned from the piano and picked up his guitar. He had bought it a year ago in a pawnshop in West Berlin. It had probably been pledged by an American soldier against a loan that was never repaid. The brand name was Martin and, although it had been cheap, it seemed to Walli a very good instrument. He guessed that neither the pawnbroker nor the soldier had realized its worth.
‘Listen to this,’ he said to Lili, and he began to sing a Bahamian tune called ‘All My Trials’ with lyrics in English. He had heard it on Western radio stations: it was popular with American folk groups. The minor chords made it a melancholy song, and he was pleased with the plaintive finger-picking accompaniment he had devised.
When he had finished, Grandma Maud looked over the top of the newspaper and said in English: ‘Your accent is perfectly dreadful, Walli, dear.’
‘Sorry.’
She reverted to German. ‘But you sing nicely.’
‘Thank you.’ Walli turned to Lili. ‘What do you think of the song?’
‘It’s a bit dreary,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll like it more when I’ve heard it a few times.’
‘That’s no good,’ he said. ‘I want to play it tonight at the Minnesänger.’ This was a folk club just off the Kurfürstendamm in West Berlin. The name meant a troubadour.
Lili was impressed. ‘Are you playing at the Minnesänger?’
‘It’s a special night. They’re having a contest. Anybody can play. The winner gets a chance of a regular gig.’
‘I didn’t know clubs did that.’
‘They don’t usually. This is a one-off.’
Grandma Maud said: ‘Don’t you have to be older to go to such a place?’
‘Yes, but I’ve got in before.’
Lili said: ‘Walli looks older than he is.’
‘Hmm.’
Lili said to Walli: ‘You’ve never sung in public. Are you nervous?’
‘You bet.’
‘You should play something more cheerful.’
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘How about “This Land is Your Land”? I love that one.’
Walli played it, and Lili sang along.
While they were singing, their older sister, Rebecca, came in. Walli adored Rebecca. After the war, when their parents had been desperately working all hours to feed the family, Rebecca had often been left in charge of Walli and Lili. She was like a second mother, but not so strict.
And she had such guts! He had watched with awe as she threw her husband’s matchstick model out of the window. Walli had never liked Hans, and was secretly glad to see him go.
All the neighbours were talking about how Rebecca had unknowingly married a Stasi officer. It had given Walli status in school: no one had previously imagined there was anything special about the Francks. Girls especially were fascinated by the thought that everything said and done in his house had been reported to the police for almost a year.
Even though Rebecca was his sister, Walli could see that she was gorgeous. She had a fabulous figure and a lovely face that showed both kindness and strength. But now he noticed that she looked as if someone had died. He stopped playing and said: ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve been fired,’ she said.
Grandma Maud put down the newspaper.
‘That’s crazy!’ Walli said. ‘The boys in your school say you’re their best teacher!’
‘I know.’
‘Why did they sack you?’
‘I think it was Hans’s revenge.’
Walli recalled Hans’s reaction when he had seen his model smashed, thousands of little matchsticks scattered across the wet pavement. ‘You’ll regret this,’ Hans had yelled, looking up through the rain. Walli had regarded that as bluster, but a moment’s thought would have told him that an agent of the secret police had the power to carry out such a threat. ‘You and your family,’ Hans had screamed, and Walli was included in the curse. He shivered.
Grandma Maud said: ‘Aren’t they desperate for teachers?’
‘Bernd Held is frantic,’ Rebecca said. ‘But he was given orders from above.’
Lili said: ‘What will you do?’
‘Get another job. It shouldn’t be difficult. Bernd has given me a glowing reference. And every school in East Germany is short of teachers, because so many have moved to the West.’
‘You should move West,’ said Lili.
‘We should all move West,’ said Walli.
‘Mother won’t, you know that,’ said Rebecca. ‘She says we must solve our problems, not run away from them.’
Walli’s father came in, dressed in a dark-blue suit with a waistcoat, old-fashioned but elegant. Grandma Maud said: ‘Good evening, Werner, dear. Rebecca needs a drink. She’s been fired.’ Grandma often suggested that someone needed a drink. Then she would have one, too.
‘I know about Rebecca,’ Father said shortly. ‘I’ve talked to her.’
He was in a bad mood: he had to be, to speak ungraciously to his mother-in-law, whom he loved and admired. Walli wondered what had happened to upset the old man.
He soon found out.
‘Come into my study, Walli,’ said Father. ‘I want a word.’ He went through the double doors into the smaller drawing room, which he used as his home office. Walli followed him. Father sat behind the desk. Walli knew he was to remain standing. ‘We had a conversation a month ago about smoking,’ Father said.
Walli immediately felt guilty. He had started smoking to look older, but he had grown to like it, and now it was a habit.
‘You promised to give it up,’ his father said.
In Walli’s opinion it was none of his father’s business whether he smoked or not.
‘Did you give it up?’
‘Yes,’ Walli lied.
‘Don’t you know that it smells?’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘I could smell it on you as soon as I walked into the drawing room.’
Now Walli felt a fool. He had been caught out in a childish lie. This did not make him feel any more friendly towards his father.
‘So I know you haven’t given it up.’
‘Why did you ask me the question, then?’ Walli hated the petulant note he heard in his own voice.
‘I was hoping you’d tell the truth.’
‘You were hoping to catch me out.’
‘Believe that if you wish. I suppose you’ve got a packet in your pocket now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Put it on my desk.’
Walli took the pack from his trouser pocket and angrily threw it on to the desk. His father picked up the pack and casually tossed it into a drawer. They were Lucky Strikes, not the inferior East German brand called f6, and it was almost a full packet, too.
‘You’ll stay in every evening for a month,’ his father said. ‘At least you won’t be visiting bars where people play the banjo and smoke all the time.’
Panic made Walli’s stomach cramp. He struggled to remain calm and reasonable. ‘It’s not a banjo, it’s a guitar. And I can’t possibly stay in for a month.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll do as I say.’
‘All right,’ Walli said desperately. ‘But not starting tonight.’
‘Starting now.’
‘But I have to go to the Minnesänger club tonight.’
‘That’s just the kind of place I want you to keep away from.’
The old man was impossible! ‘I’ll stay in every night for a month from tomorrow, okay?’
‘Your quarantine will not be adjusted to suit your plans. That would defeat the purpose. It is intended to inconvenience you.’
In this mood Father could not be shaken from his resolution, but Walli was mad with frustration, and he tried anyway. ‘You don’t understand! Tonight I’m entering a contest at the Minnesänger – it’s a unique opportunity.’
‘I’m not postponing your punishment to permit you to play the banjo!’
‘It’s a guitar, you stupid old fool! A guitar!’ Walli stormed out.
The three women in the next room had obviously heard everything, and they stared at him. Rebecca said: ‘Oh, Walli . . .’