Verena spoke patiently. ‘O’Dell is an employee of Martin Luther King’s organization, just as I am, but Levison isn’t even on the payroll. He’s just a friend and advisor to Martin. Do you really want to give J. Edgar Hoover the power to choose Martin’s friends?’
‘Verena, they’re standing in the way of the civil rights bill. Just tell Dr King to get rid of them – please.’
Verena sighed. ‘I think he will. It’s taking a while for his Christian conscience to get around to the idea of spurning loyal long-time supporters, but in the end he’ll do it.’
‘Thank the Lord for that.’ George’s spirits lifted: for once he could go back to Bobby with good news.
Verena salted the steaks and put them in a frying pan. ‘And now I’ll tell you something,’ she said. ‘It won’t make any goddamn difference. Hoover will continue to leak stories to the press about how the civil rights movement is a Communist front. He would do it if we were all lifelong Republicans. J. Edgar Hoover is a pathological liar who hates Negroes, and it’s a damn shame your boss doesn’t have the balls to fire him.’
George wanted to protest but unfortunately the accusation was true. He sliced a tomato into the salad.
Verena said: ‘Do you like your steak well cooked?’
‘Not too much.’
‘The French way? So do I.’
George made a couple more drinks and they sat at the small table to eat. George embarked on the second half of his message. ‘It would help the President if Dr King would call off this damn Washington sit-in.’
‘That isn’t going to happen.’
King had called for a ‘massive, militant and monumental sit-in demonstration’ in Washington, coinciding with nationwide acts of civil disobedience. The Kennedy brothers were appalled. ‘Consider this,’ George said. ‘In Congress, there are some people who will always vote for civil rights and some who never will. The ones who matter are those who could go either way.’
‘Swing voters,’ said Verena, using a phrase that had come into vogue.
‘Exactly. They know that the bill is morally right but politically unpopular, and they’re looking for excuses to vote against it. Your demonstration will give them the chance to say: “I’m for civil rights, but not at the point of a gun.” The timing is wrong.’
‘As Martin says, the timing is always wrong for white people.’
George grinned. ‘You’re whiter than I am.’
She tossed her head. ‘And prettier.’
‘That’s the truth. You’re just about the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.’
‘Thank you. Eat up.’
George picked up his knife and fork. They ate mostly in silence. George complimented Verena on the steaks, and she said he made a good salad, for a man.
When they had finished, they carried their drinks into the living room and sat on the couch, and George resumed the argument. ‘It’s different, now, don’t you see? The administration is on our side. The President is trying his best to pass the bill we’ve been demanding for years.’
She shook her head. ‘If we’ve learned one thing, it’s that change comes faster when we keep up the pressure. Did you know that Negroes are getting served by white waitresses in Birmingham restaurants now?’
‘Yes, I did know that. What an incredible turnaround.’
‘And it wasn’t achieved by waiting patiently. It happened because they threw rocks and started fires.’
‘The situation has changed.’
‘Martin won’t cancel the demonstration.’
‘Would he modify it?’
‘What do you mean?’
This was George’s Plan B. ‘Could it become a simple law-abiding march, rather than a sit-in? Congressmen might feel less threatened.’
‘I don’t know. Martin might consider that.’
‘Hold it on a Wednesday, to discourage people from staying in the city all weekend, and end it early so that the marchers leave well before nightfall.’
‘You’re trying to draw the sting.’
‘If we must have a demonstration, we should do everything possible to make sure the occasion is non-violent and makes a good impression, especially on television.’
‘In that case, how about stationing portable toilets all along the route? I guess Bobby can get that done, even if he can’t fire Hoover.’
‘Great idea.’
‘And how about rounding up some white supporters? The whole thing will look better on TV if there are white marchers as well as black.’
George considered. ‘I bet Bobby could get the unions to send contingents.’
‘If you can promise both of those things as sweeteners, I think we have a chance of changing Martin’s mind.’
George saw that Verena had already come around to his point of view and was now discussing how to persuade King. That was already half a victory. He said: ‘And if you can persuade Dr King to change the sit-in to a march, I think we might get the President to endorse it.’ He was sticking his neck out, but it was possible.
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said.
George put his arm around her. ‘See, we
are
a good team,’ he said. She smiled and said nothing. He persisted. ‘Don’t you agree?’
She kissed him. It was the same as the last kiss: more than just friendly, less than sexy. She said thoughtfully: ‘After that bomb smashed the window of my hotel room, you crossed the room barefoot to fetch my shoes.’
‘I remember,’ he said. ‘There was broken glass all over the floor.’
‘That was it,’ she said. ‘That was your mistake.’
George frowned. ‘I don’t get it. I thought I was being nice.’
‘Exactly. You’re too good for me, George.’
‘What? That’s insane!’
She was serious. ‘I sleep around, George. I get drunk. I’m unfaithful. I had sex with Martin, once.’
George raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
‘You deserve better,’ Verena went on. ‘You’re going to have a wonderful career. You might be our first Negro President. You need a wife who will be true to you and work alongside you and support you and be a credit to you. That’s not me.’
George was bemused. ‘I wasn’t looking that far ahead,’ he said. ‘I was just hoping to kiss you some more.’
She smiled. ‘That, I can do,’ she said.
He kissed her long and slow. After a while he stroked the outside of her thigh, up inside the skirt of her tennis dress. His hand went as far as her hip. He had been right: no underwear.
She knew what he was thinking. ‘See?’ she said. ‘Bad girl.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m crazy about you anyway.’
26
It had been hard for Walli to leave Berlin. Karolin was there, and he wanted to be near her. But that made no sense when they were separated by the Wall. Although they had been only a mile apart he could never see her. He could not risk crossing the border again: it was only by luck that he had not been killed last time. All the same, it had been hard for him to move to Hamburg.
Walli told himself he understood why Karolin had chosen to stay with her family to have the baby. Who was best qualified to help her when she gave birth – her mother, or a seventeen-year-old guitar player? But the logic of her decision was small consolation to him.
He thought about her when he went to bed at night and as soon as he woke up in the morning. When he saw a pretty girl in the street it just made him sad about Karolin. He wondered how she was. Did the pregnancy make her uncomfortable and nauseous, or was she glowing? Were her parents angry with her, or thrilled at the prospect of a grandchild?
They exchanged letters, and both always wrote ‘I love you’. But they hesitated to say more about their emotions, knowing that every word would be scrutinized by a secret policeman in the censorship office, perhaps someone they knew, such as Hans Hoffmann. It was like declaring your feelings in front of a scornful audience.
They were on opposite sides of the Wall, and they might as well have been a thousand miles apart.
So Walli came to Hamburg and moved into his sister’s spacious apartment.
Rebecca never nagged him. His parents, in their letters, badgered him to go back to school, or perhaps college. Their stupid suggestions had included that he should study to become an electrician, a lawyer and a schoolteacher like Rebecca and Bernd. But Rebecca herself said nothing. If he spent all day in his room practising the guitar, she made no objection, just asked him to wash up his coffee cup instead of leaving it dirty in the sink. If ever he talked to her about his future, she said: ‘What’s the rush? You’re seventeen. Do what you want, and see what happens.’ Bernd was equally tolerant. Walli adored Rebecca and liked Bernd more every day.
He had not yet got used to West Germany. People had bigger cars and newer clothes and nicer homes. The government was openly criticized in the newspapers and even on television. Reading about some attack on the ageing Chancellor Adenauer, Walli would find himself looking guiltily over his shoulder, fearful that someone might observe him reading subversive material; and he would have to remind himself that this was the West, where he had freedom of speech.
He was sad to move away from Berlin but, he now discovered to his delight, Hamburg was the pounding heart of the German music scene. It was a port city, entertaining sailors from all over the world. A street called the Reeperbahn was the centre of the red-light district, with bars, strip joints, semi-secret homosexual clubs, and many music venues.
Walli longed for only two things in life: to live with Karolin, and to be a professional musician.
One day soon after moving to Hamburg he walked along the Reeperbahn with his guitar slung over his shoulder and went into every bar to ask if they would like a singer-guitarist to entertain their customers. He believed he was good. He could sing, he could play, and he could please an audience. All he needed was a chance.
After a dozen or so rejections he struck lucky at a beer cellar called El Paso. The decor was evidently intended to be American, with the skull of a longhorn steer over the door and posters of cowboy films on the walls. The proprietor wore a Stetson, but his name was Dieter and he spoke with a Low German accent. ‘Can you play American music?’ he said.
‘You betcha,’ said Walli in English.
‘Come back at seven-thirty. I’ll give you a trial.’
‘How much would you pay me?’ said Walli. Although he still got an allowance from Enok Andersen, the accountant at his father’s factory, he was desperate to prove he could be financially independent, and justify his refusal to follow his parents’ career advice.
But Dieter looked mildly offended, as if Walli had said something impolite. ‘Play for half an hour or so,’ he said airily. ‘If I like you, then we can talk about money.’
Walli was inexperienced, but not stupid, and he felt sure that such evasiveness was a sign that the money would be low. However, this was the only offer he had got in two hours, and he accepted it.
He went home and spent the afternoon putting together half an hour of American songs. He would start with ‘If I Had a Hammer’, he decided; the audience at the Europe Hotel had liked it. He would do ‘This Land is Your Land’ and ‘Mess of Blues’. He practised all his choices several times, though he hardly needed to.
When Rebecca and Bernd came home from work and heard his news, Rebecca announced that she would go with him. ‘I’ve never seen you play to an audience,’ she said. ‘I’ve just heard you messing about at home and never finishing the song you started.’
It was kind of her, particularly as tonight she and Bernd were excited about something else: the visit to Germany of President Kennedy.
Walli and Rebecca’s parents believed that only American firmness had prevented the Soviet Union from taking over West Berlin and incorporating it into East Germany. Kennedy was a hero to them. Walli himself liked anyone who gave the tyrannical East German government a hard time.
Walli laid the table while Rebecca prepared supper. ‘Mother always taught us that if you want something you join a political party and campaign for it,’ she said. ‘Bernd and I want East and West Germany to be reunited, so that we and thousands more Germans can be with our families again. That’s why we’ve joined the Free Democratic Party.’
Walli wanted the same thing, with all his heart, but he could not imagine how it might happen. ‘What do you think Kennedy will do?’ he asked.
‘He may say that we have to learn to live with East Germany, at least for now. That’s true, but it’s not what we want to hear. I’m hoping he’ll give the Communists a poke in the eye, if you want to know the truth.’
They watched the news after they ate. The picture was in clear shades of grey on the screen of their up-to-the-minute Franck television – not blurred green like the old sets.
Today Kennedy had been in West Berlin.
He had made a speech from the steps of Schöneberg town hall. In front of the building was a vast plaza which was jam-packed with spectators. According to the newsreader, there were 450,000 people in the crowd.
The handsome young president spoke in the open air, a huge stars-and-stripes flag behind him, the breeze tousling his thick hair. He came out fighting. ‘There are some who say that Communism is the wave of the future,’ he said. ‘Let them come to Berlin!’ The audience roared their agreement. The cheers were even louder when he repeated the sentence in German. ‘
Lass’ sie nach Berlin kommen!
’
Walli saw that Rebecca and Bernd were delighted by this. ‘He’s not talking about normalization, or realistically accepting the status quo,’ Rebecca said approvingly.
Kennedy was defiant. ‘Freedom has many difficulties, and democracy is not perfect,’ he said.
Bernd commented: ‘He’s referring to the Negroes.’
Then Kennedy said scornfully: ‘But we have never had to put up a wall to keep our people in!’
‘Right!’ Walli shouted.
The June sun shone down on the President’s head. ‘All free men, wherever they live, are citizens of Berlin,’ he said. ‘And therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words:
Ich bin ein Berliner!
’
The crowd went wild. Kennedy stepped back from the microphone and slid his notes into his jacket pocket.
Bernd was smiling broadly. ‘I think the Soviets will get that message,’ he said.
Rebecca said: ‘Khrushchev is going to be mad as hell.’