Harpo Speaks! (43 page)

The general broke into a diabolical grin, which with all the scars on his face looked like a map of the Rock Island Railroad. He grunted and waved toward a table on the other side of the office. On the table, around a hot samovar, were bottles of wine and vodka, stacks of bread, pots of sour cream, and platters of caviar, herring, sausages, pickles and piroshki.

The general issued an order. “Eat,” he said. “It’s your last chance. In Poland they eat like pigs.”

With no further ado the general obeyed his own order. That’s why he’d been grinding his teeth. He couldn’t wait. In fifteen minutes he had consumed half the goodies on the table, washed down with half a bottle of vodka. I didn’t do too badly either, having missed dinner on the train.

Colonel Low Brow reassured me, while I was eating, that my papers and baggage were being processed by his men. An honored guest of the Soviet Union, he said, must not be permitted to wait in line. When three other officers came into headquarters they were surprised to see me there. The colonel set them straight on who I was. I could recognize the words “Tovarich Marx” and “Tovarich Litvinov.” Name dropper.

A soldier brought in my papers, and the interpreter said, “It’s train time, please.” The general licked sour cream off his fingers and waved me good-bye. The other officers crunched my hand, one by one, and I was escorted over to the Warsaw express. I was stuffed and groggy when I plopped onto my seat. I had nothing to be scared of now, I told myself, but a delayed reaction set in and I began to shake. Knowing no other cure for my condition, I shook myself to sleep.

If the trip from Moscow to Leningrad had been a dream, the trip from Moscow to New York was a nightmare, every kilometer of the way. I had originally planned to stop over in Paris for a week or so, then hop over to London to meet Chico, who was due there in the middle of January to do a series of appearances.

My secret mission changed my plans considerably. I stopped only when I absolutely had to, and for no longer than it took to change trains. I was so conscious of what I was carrying under my sock that I favored my right leg, without thinking, and I caught myself walking with a limp. I’d always been an inconspicuous type guy offstage, but now people seemed to stare at me as if I had forgotten to put my pants on.

It was amazing how many counter-espionage agents I could identify, by their dark looks and shifty movements, on trains and in stations. I must have spotted altogether six hundred agents, give or take half a dozen. The most dangerous ones, I knew, were not the dark and shifty characters. They were too obvious. The ones to watch were the characters like the guy who rushed up to me between trains, slapped me on the back and said, “Hey, boy! Am I glad to see another Yankee Doodle Dandy! Are you comin’ or goin’?” I was goin’. I got away from him fast. Pretty clever, trying to throw me off my guard like that. But not old Mapcase. I was onto his game.

The ocean crossing took seven days, according to the records of the French Line. According to me it took seven months.

I laid down a strict rule when the boat left Le Havre. I must leave the stateroom only to eat, and for no other reason. But after the second day out I overruled myself. It was a choice of getting caught or going stir-crazy. For two days I did nothing except play solitaire and make bets with myself on how long it would be before the ship hit another big wave. When I found myself checking the papers on my leg every time I turned up a face card, I knew I was going nuts.

I got to brooding about those eight weeks in Russia. Even after I had become a local celebrity in Moscow I couldn’t shake off the awful feeling (it hits you in the pit of the stomach) that I was being watched wherever I went, by eyes I couldn’t see. I never, not for a minute, felt I was really alone. I was a stranger who had stumbled into a deadly conspiracy, who had to be kept from finding out what the plot was all about. The worst part of it was knowing that, if I wasn’t within hollering distance of the American Embassy, I had nobody to turn to for help. I couldn’t call a cop or a lawyer, or complain to the government, or appeal to the guys I was working with. They were all part of the plot, every last one of them. The actors as much as everybody in the audience. The charming Litvinovs as much as the unsmiling Melachrino and the scar-faced general at the border. The devout Jewish stagehand as much as Comrade Stalin.

What tipped me off to the Russians were the things I admired them for at first, their ability to concentrate, their frank curiosity, their enthusiasm in the theatre, their capacity for hard work, their respect for regulations. Wonderful qualities, but deadly-deadly because I did not come across, among the thousands of Russians I saw, one screwball, one crackpot, one wise guy, one loafer, or one sorehead. I never saw anybody do anything just for the hell of it. I never saw anybody pull a spontaneous gag.

Like George S. Kaufmanski had said, a bit wasn’t funny merely because it got a laugh. It had to have a reason to be truly funny. Well, the Soviets were too wound up with reasons to suit me. It was a shame they couldn’t have gotten the job of the Revolution done and still had a few kicks along the way. What Moscow needed was one big hotfoot-just for no reason at all.

It was only during my last few days there that I began to make any sense out of the impression Russia had made on me. The more I thought about it the worse the feeling in the pit of my stomach got. I knew it wouldn’t go away until I got to the Polish border and breathed the fresh, free air of the Western world again.

Then came the meeting in Ambassador Bullitt’s office. And here I was, four days out of New York City, an American citizen on a friendly French boat, locked in my stateroom and acting like a fugitive lunatic. This was ridiculous.

I was making myself all the more conspicuous by hiding out. It was a smooth crossing for winter. There was a congenial crowd on board. So what was the famous, fun-loving harp player locking himself in his stateroom for?

I let myself out. I decided to play it nonchalant. I should mix it up. Circulate. Roam the ship and case the broads, like I was any old spy named Joe. I played a few rubbers of bridge, talked to elderly couples who looked trustworthy-and cased the broads.

There wasn’t so much to this cloak-and-dagger business, I told myself, once you got the hang of it. The main thing was to act like you didn’t have a worry in the world. Still, I slept with my socks on, and took showers with my right foot sticking out of the bath compartment, standing like a ballet dancer with the gout.

The voyage dragged on, and on. The waves got farther apart and the ship’s clocks slowed down. I couldn’t sit still long enough to play a hand of bridge. I circulated. I roamed. I fidgeted. The stewards and the waiters and the bartenders were growing darker and shiftier by the minute. I began to wonder about the elderly couples in the library. They were the ones to watch. Trying to throw me off my guard.

Twenty-four hours to go. Twelve hours. Time to change to city clothes and pack my suitcase. Time to make a final check of the straps around the packet. Might get jostled getting off the boat, or in customs.

There was a knock on the stateroom door. I tried to pull my pants leg down the same time I jumped to my feet, and I fell flat on my face. I missed busting my nose on the edge of a chair by an inch.

It was only the steward. “One hour from docking,” he said.

“God bless you,” said I.

A lot of corny lines had been written about the Grand Old Lady of New York Harbor, and what the sight of her meant to a traveler returning home. Now I knew how true they were. When I saw the Statue of Liberty, out of the porthole, I couldn’t think of anything corny enough to say to her. She may have been nothing to seagulls and pigeons but a big, green latrine, and nothing but a menace to ferryboat captains-but to me she was the most beautiful broad in the world.

In thirty-five minutes we’d be tied up at Pier 88.

Somebody knocked at my door. It wasn’t the steward’s polite rapping. This was a solid belt that said, Open up or else! I didn’t have to open up. The door was flung open. Two hulking, stonyfaced bruisers came in the stateroom, slammed the door behind them, and turned the lock. I hadn’t seen either of these guys at any time during the voyage. They were dressed for going ashore, and carried their hats and overcoats. One of them carried a black brief case. They both wore suits with padded shoulders, plenty bulky enough to conceal holsters and pistols.

They stood there for a minute or so without speaking, towering over me, glaring at me, waiting until they were sure nobody had followed them.

The one with the briefcase said, in perfect English, “Marx, you have something we want. You probably have it strapped to yourself somewhere under your clothing. You will be good enough to remove it and hand it over.”

Well, Exapno Mapease, I said to myself, you gave it a try but you didn’t make it. The jig is up.

Then the guys took out their wallets, flipped them open, and showed me their identification. They were agents of the Secret Service. The United States Secret Service.

I pulled up my pants, ripped off the tape, unwound the straps, handed over the dispatches from Ambassador Bullitt, and gave my leg its first scratch in ten days. It was a beautiful scratch, sheer ecstasy. It was all the reward I wanted for what I had done.

When the ship tied up at the pier it was announced over the loud speakers that there would be a short delay before passengers could debark. I was the only passenger who knew the reason for the delay. It was to allow me to be the first to go ashore. The ship’s officers saluted me as I stepped off the boat. I walked down the gangplank, followed by the two agents. I turned and waved back at the passengers crowded against the rail. Without knowing why, they applauded me. What a finish!

The agents led me straight through customs, stopping only to flash their wallets and to explain that Mr. Marx’s baggage was tagged for diplomatic priority. Now I was even more ecstatic-on account of my trunk was full of illegal rubles and hot icons.

On the pier, on the free side of the customs barrier, were Gummo and his wife and Aleck Woollcott. When the Secret Service boys saw I had friends waiting, they shook hands with me and said, “Sure appreciate this,” and “Glad it didn’t put you out any,” and then ran down the pier toward the street.

Aleck was so glad to see me and so stunned by the way I had been escorted off the boat that he couldn’t speak. He waggled his head and grinned and held up his hands and puffed with pride. Gummo and Helen hugged me and kissed me. It was a wonderful homecoming.

Now I could say it and mean it: it had also been a wonderful trip.

One thing, only one thing, was missing to make the triumph complete. I was a Secret Agent who didn’t know what his Secret was. I had no idea whatsoever what might have been in the envelopes I had carried, strapped to my leg, all the way from the other side of the moon.

I still don’t know. I never will, of course.

Alias “Exapno Mapcase,” I’m a headliner on the Caviar Circuit. Poster for a one-night stand out of Moscow, December, 1933. Below: A tender moment with Thelma Todd, in the movie Horse Feathers.

Culver Service

Culver Service

A most revealing scene in Animal Crackers. Below: Little did we know when we filmed Duck Soup (left) and Horse Feathers that we’d wind up featured on the Late, Late, Late, Late Show.

Penguin Photo

Culver Service

Penguin Photo

Innocent bystander watches Edgar Kennedy and small friend exchange slow burns, in Monkey Business. Below, Go West. Groucho: “Don’t you love your brother?” Chico: “Nah, I’m just used to him.”

Penguin Photo

“Chorus” (left) and “Property Man” in Yellow Jacket. My first venture into the legitimate theatre, which came close to breaking up a beautiful friendship.

Harpist and piano player compare notes at an Air Force base during the Korean War.

I sit for Salvador Dali. Below: the result, one of the prizes in my art collection.

John Munn

Two canvases from my do-it-yourself collection. The clown is one of my latest. I painted the accordion player during my Early Chicago Period (circa 1926).

M-G-M Photo by Ted Allan

The honeymooners. Susan and I in 1936, not long after our masquerade upstairs in the firehouse.

The arrival of Billy makes us a family. Below, he visits his old man on the set of The Big Store.

Opposite page, from north to south: Jimmy, Alex, Minnie. Above, left to right between takes on A Night in Casablanca: Uncle Chico, Alex, Uncle Groucho, Jimmy, Billy, and the proudest father in Hollywood (holding Minnie).

Christmas, 1947. It was so much fun we couldn’t bear to take the lights down and kept on celebrating Christmas all through 1948.

Family group, Beverly Hills. Jimmy is the Little Leaguer, Alex the Cub Scout, Minnie the Brownie, Billy the sophisticated teen-ager. Mom’s cool smirk is due to the fact that she knows damn well this is the first time I’ve ever seen the inside of an encyclopedia, and who am I trying to kid?

Christmas, 1953. Mom says there is a Santa Claus.

11 … and the world is mine.”

John Munn

Where seldom is heard a discouraging word-El Rancho Harpo, 1960. The Marxes (from Jimmy, left, to Alex, right) and their livestock: three head of horses, two head of dogs, and one head of Siamese cat.

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CHAPTER 19

The Oboe under

the Blanket

Miss FLATTO, REST her soul, had died while I was in Russia. Aleck was heartbroken, but I felt it was merciful that we never had a chance to meet again and relive those exasperating days of P.S. 86. As it was, Miss Flatto was able to pass peacefully on, blessed with happier memories.

The day I got back I took a suite in a hotel on Central Park West, dumped my loot there, and went with Woollcott to have dinner with as many of the mob as he could round up. Waiting for us in the restaurant were Adams, Broun, Benchley and Dorothy Parker. A little later George Kaufman came in. He was carrying a newspaper clipping and he had a mean and sour look about him.