Touch and Go (20 page)

“What is it I did?”

“You were picketing that petroleum company.”

“Yeah, well, what about it?”

“The head of it is one of our biggest contributors.” Win and I took to calling ourselves the Chicago Two.

When
Studs' Place
was dropped it
was
a tough time. We weren't in poverty, but there was a lot of anxiety. Luckily Ida was working and brought in more dough than I did. She was a social worker for the Chase House, an integrated Episcopalian childcare center, and became friends with many of the people there; they all liked her.

One time she was going to a big convention in Milwaukee. The driver was a retired cop, and along for the ride were two other women and Ida, the only white person in the car. The car was stopped. The retired cop showed his ex-policeman papers and the cop said, “OK, go ahead.”

Ida said, “I wonder why they stopped us. You weren't speeding.”

They looked at her and chuckled: “Oh, sweet Ida.” Suddenly it hit her.

Ida kept us afloat, and while it was not the most delightful period in the world it didn't affect my personal life in Chicago; I was still this guy who was known. I'd pick up a buck here and there at women's clubs, speaking about jazz and folk music. Ed Clamage, a local florist and Legionnaire, would follow me around and send letters
warning the women's clubs against having me speak. They all ignored him.

I was getting a hundred bucks a lecture, and one woman, very old and very elegant, was so furious at Clamage that she said, “I will pay you two hundred.”

I wrote him a note, sent him a check for ten dollars. “Do you realize you've made me an extra hundred bucks? You're my agent, so here's your cut.” Never did hear back.

Some years later, a woman named Elsie Clamage called to offer me a hundred bucks to emcee and read a poem at an event honoring her aunt. I said, “Are you related to Ed?”

“Yes, I am, Studs. But please do not connect me with him.”

“Will he be there?”

“He'll probably be there, but he doesn't know you're on the program.”

So it's at the Palmer House or the Hilton Ballroom, and there are two stages: one where the speakers sit, the other where the band sits. Some people are facing the band stage and can't really see our table. I say to Elsie, “Which is Ed?”

“He's at that table over there. A guy with a fat neck.” I saw a fat neck holding up a very bald head. So Elsie gets up and says, “And now we give you one of Chicago's favorites, you remember
Studs' Place
? Here's the legendary Studs Terkel.” I'll never forget the back of Ed's neck. There was a twitch and then it was rigid the rest of the time. He didn't move one bit for the whole hour, just sat stone still as though catatonic.

I spent a lot of time at home during the blacklist period, reading, listening to music. The FBI would come by once in a while to see me. They always came in pairs. Of course, I'd put on this big act, invite them in for a drink, while sweet Ida suddenly wasn't so sweet . . .

 

 

THE OCCASIONAL FBI VISITS to my house were not always pleasant. With a sense of some shame, I say this. My wife, usually the most
gracious of hostesses, was for some reason, inhospitable. There were at least two occasions I recall when she peremptorily showed them to the door. She always let in small boys who sold magazine subscriptions for the benefit of the nation's halt, lame, and blind; as well as to make points that would enable them to attend Harvard. But to the FBI, she manifested—how can I say it?—contempt. I was, of course, terribly embarrassed.

I myself was hospitable at all times. I seated them. I offered them choices of Scotch or bourbon. I had triple shots in mind. Invariably, they refused. Once, I suggested vodka, making it quite clear it was domestic. I thought I was quite amusing. At no time did our visitors laugh. Nor did my wife. I felt bad. I did so want to make them feel at home. I never succeeded.

They had questions in mind. They frequently consulted small notebooks. They hardly had the chance to ask any of their questions. It wasn't that I was rude. On the contrary; I simply felt what I had to tell them was far more interesting than what they had to ask me.

I read Thoreau to them; his sermon on John Brown. Passages out of Walden. Paine. I told them these are times that try men's souls. And so on. We hold these truths, I even tried out on them. Nothing doing. Their attention wandered. They were like small restless boys in the classroom, wiggling in their seats. At times, I showed them where the bathroom was and asked if they wanted any reading matter. No, they didn't. I have done some of my most exploratory reading there, I told them. No response.

After several such visits, with a notable lack of response on their part, my patience, I must admit, did wear thin. On one occasion, a visitor took out his notebook and studied it. Our son, five years old at the time, peered over his shoulder. The guest abruptly shut the book. The boy was startled.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“He was peeking in my book.”

“He's five years old.”

“This is government information.”

“Is it pornographic?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Isn't it fit for a child to see?

“This is serious.”

“Does it have dirty words or dirty pictures?”

“What??”

“Does it? Come on, be a sport, lemme see. I won't show it to the kid.”

With the determined step of an FBI man, he stalked toward the door. He had trouble with the lock. I opened it. “One for the road?” I was determinedly hospitable. He walked out without so much as a thank-you. His colleague followed suit, step by step.

The last time I heard from the FBI was a good twenty-five years ago. It was a telephone call. I was not in the best of moods. In sorting through my records, preparing for my disc jockey program, I had dropped a 78 rpm. It smashed into a million pieces. It was a collector's item: “Joe Louis Blues.” Lyrics by Richard Wright. Vocal by Paul Robeson. Accompaniment, Count Basie and his band. I was furious as I answered the phone.

“Are you Louis Terkel, known as Studs?”

“Yeah!” Damn my clumsiness.

“This is Martin Shea, FBI.” It was a rich, stentorian bass. Strong, firmly American.

“Cut the shit. Who is it? Eddie?” I was in no mood for badinage.

“Shea of the FBI.” A note of uncertainty. An octave higher than before. A baritone.

“Fer Chrissake, don't fuck around! Jimmy, ya sonofabitch!”

“I'm Shea of the FBI.” An intimation of tremolo. A tenor.

“Look, you cocksucker! I'm not in the mood. I just broke a valuable record. Understand?”

“I'm Shea of the FBI!” Another octave up. A mezzo-soprano. I was quite certain it was he. My fury, though, was uncontrollable. All the more so because it was he.

“Look, fucko. Keep this up and I'll kick the shit out of ya!”

Really! I'm so flabby I can't swat a mosquito.

The voice was higher now. It was a countertenor. No, it was a despairing falsetto. A castrato, that was it.

“I'm Shea of the FBI!”

“You prick . . .”

A click. He had hung up. From Feodor Chaliapin to Alfred Deller. It was a remarkable piece of virtuosity, surpassing even Yma Sumac. That was the last I heard from the FBI. Oh well.
²⁹

 

 

MEANTIME, I was trying my hand at writing soap operas for Erna Phillips, the queen of the soaps. I started to write material that she liked, and then one day she called up and said: “I didn't know that you were on the attorney general's list, that you were blacklisted. Why didn't you tell me? I'm in trouble.”

Apparently she'd mentioned me at a dinner with professional colleagues, and this one guy said, “You can't hire him.” So she paid me what I had coming in cash. She didn't want her name associated with me even that much.

At the same time, I was doing
Wax Museum
and writing a Sunday column about jazz for the Chicago
Sun-Times
. The column was called
The Hot Plate
: I reviewed new jazz, blues, and show-tunes records. I've read the columns again—an old friend who goes to the Chicago public library found them in the microfilms and sent them to me. They were pretty awful; slick and facile.

One day, the Sunday editor called me in for a meeting. He announced that they were dropping the column. Why? Lack of space. The next week a new column appeared by Howard Miller, an ultra-right-wing guy who Mike Royko used to go after in print. They gave him three columns in place of my one. Fired me because they had no room . . . for me, that is. So there it was. My journalist
friend Herman Kogan was furious. So was the Sunday editor. He was a good guy, Irish, drunk. But he'd been told I had to go. I went back to being a radio guy, but the troubles were not over.

I hate meetings, and like Groucho Marx, wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me, but now and again, exceptions must be made. I confess, I was a member of the St. Louis Browns' Fan's Club. A small but select group: Bill Leonard, Frank Holzfeind, and Freddie Townsend.

Bill Leonard was the drama critic of the
Journal of Commerce
and the nightclub critic of the Chicago
Tribune
. Frank Holzfeind ran the Blue Note, a noted jazz club. Freddie Townsend was a public-relations man who was genially drunk all the time. Every day he'd welcome you, “Merry Christmas!” Every day was Christmas. They were all old baseball fans, fond of imbibing a few, and had formed the St. Louis Browns' Fan's Club after attending the St. Louis Browns' final game: a post-existence fan club.

That column attacking me appeared in one of the West Side neighborhood papers; several columns, as a matter of fact—the work of Dan Lydon. How come I'm not knocked off the air? And he prints all kinds of information about me in the columns—the Red Cross rejection included.

Freddie Townsend, who was doing publicity for the Palmer House, cancels all the ads to Lydon's paper. Lydon is outraged: “What are you doing?!”

Freddie says: “Well, you knocked out Studs Terkel. I'm withdrawing all the ads from your paper.”

Lydon says: “Yeah, but he's a Commie. I got a wife and kids.”

Freddie says, “So does Studs,” and hangs up on him.

In the main, the Chicago public didn't know about me being blacklisted because so many newspaper guys were friends of mine. I was blacklisted in the trade. Outside the trade, they didn't know.

New York was different. I went to New York after
Studs' Place
was knocked off the air in 1951. There I met with Henry Jaffe, an agent who also was the lawyer for the American Federation of
Television and Radio Artists (AFTRA). He says, “How about
Studs' Place
? This was a big show, got rave reviews. Let me call up the vice president of NBC.”

I'm sitting there while Jaffe makes the call: “What about this
Studs' Place
, the Chicago program? Studs is with me now.” A pause, then he says, “It was knocked off. How come? What's it all about?” A long pause, and then he looks at me. “Oh, you can't talk about it on the phone. Well, you've told me what it is, thank you.” Then to me, “Well, it looks like you're in political trouble.”

The next day the headline in
PM
is that his own wife, the actress Jean Muir, who had a role on a TV show, has been blacklisted. So there it was. New York didn't work out.

There was one point when I thought I might be called to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee, but I wasn't. Today we honor Dalton Trumbo, who went through everything. I suppose I'd have gone with him; at least I like to think so. Others did otherwise. Think of Larry Parks, pathetic, on his knees. “Please don't make me . . .”

Parks named names, and then he apologized. But his life was never the same and he died shortly thereafter. So did Lee J. Cobb. John Garfield was about to name names and then he died from a heart attack. Mady Christian created the role of Mama in
I Remember Mama
. She was named, humiliated, and eventually she killed herself. Likewise Albert Decker, a villain in movies, a dapper man.

Lionel Stander, the comic, was one of the heroes. He arrived at the hearings with a blonde on each arm. He takes the stand: “Are you now or have you ever been . . .”

Stander replies: “You want me to name names of un-Americans? You bet, yessir.”

“Well name them.”

“
You
, sir. Senator Dies, you are Number One un-American. Senator Thomas, you're Number Two un-American . . .” Everyone was going crazy.

“Get off the stand.”

“Let me finish. Every member of this committee is un-American.” It was fantastic.

A number of people stood up to their inquisitors. Ring Lardner Jr. among them: “Of course I could name names. But, Senator, I just would not like myself in the morning.”

Being called, it was all so haphazard; it was just chance that I wasn't. Luck played a big role and the big luck was being in Chicago! Had I been on the Coast or New York, I might have been dead meat.

Through all this, I was never quite in despair, never really lacking confidence. But it was just the situation, would the situation ever change? Then things popped a little: Along came WFMT radio, and the books.

D
uring the blacklist, I was often at home listening to the radio, not in the best temper. I just happened upon WFMT while turning the dial. I distinctly remember hearing Carl Orff's
Carmina Burana
. I like a station that plays music of that sort.