She’d braced herself for Jonas Cain being short. She’d braced herself for him being ancient, him being a child half her age. She’d braced herself for his having a face Mama called “perfect for radio,” and a host of other deficiencies, as well.
She hadn’t braced herself for this.
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“With all due respect, sir,” Jonas emphasized the final word, setting an example of how one should address a fellow man properly, “My 761st Tank Battalion broke through the German lines in Tillet so the rest of you could come strolling in after. One of our tankers, Private Ernest Jenkins, received the Silver Star from General Patton himself for our effort. Kraut bastards got a pounding they won’t soon forget from The Harlem Hellfighters.”
Rose had been about to step in to shield Theo Goetz, who played Papa Bauer. He was a Jew, born in Vienna, Austria. A proud naturalized American, but Jonas’ Kraut slur could still prove offensive to him, when the unnamed actor countered, “Eleanor’s n*g***s is more like it.”
Mrs. Roosevelt’s outspoken efforts to end Jim Crow laws and integrate the military, all of which came to a head when she was photographed personally handing out refreshments inside Washington DC’s first mixed canteen amongst Negro servicemen and white hostesses, earned all colored soldiers the demeaning sobriquet.
Rose had been about to chastise the use of the epithet Kraut. But now she stood frozen in the face of an even worse slander. There was no question it was up to her. When Irna was in Chicago, Rose was the established authority. Except she had no idea what to say.
“I’m a writer. I’m a soap-opera writer,” she stressed the distinction. “Not a novelist, not a playwright, a soap-opera writer. I believe that no matter how dire things get, no matter how bleak the situation may seem at end of day Friday, I can always figure out how to engender a happy ending come first thing Monday.”
“When life mocks her, breaks her hopes, dashes her against the rocks of despair,” Jonas intoned, “Helen Trent fights back bravely, successfully, to prove what so many women long to prove, that because a woman is 35 or more, romance in life need not be over, that romance can begin at 35.”
Rose’s first thought was, “Does he think I’m 35?” But her second, more offended one, which she spoke out loud, was, “That’s not one of Irna’s shows!”
“My apologies.” Jonas’s grin matched the merriment in his eyes.
“Are you auditioning for them?” So many issues floating in the ether between them, yet this was the one Rose felt compelled to address first. “Are they trying to poach you? What are they offering? Because, whatever they’re offering, I can match it. I can beat it.” She was already going over her budget, wondering what she could cut in order to sweeten the pot and compel Jonas to stay with them. With her.
“What are you offering?”
“Anything.”
Jonas filled Rose in on the history of Smalls Paradise before they entered. It had been the only Negro-owned and integrated Harlem joint throughout the 1930s and beyond. All the others, including The Cotton Club, once located on 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue, had colored performers, but exclusively white customers. While The Cotton Club and its ilk closed at 4 AM, Smalls Paradise remained open all night, culminating with a 6 AM floor show of dancing girls and waiters serving drinks on roller skates.
“Don’t worry,” Jonas reassured, “It’s a very respectable place. W.E.B. DuBois celebrated his eighty-third birthday here just this past February. A favor from the owner. The party was originally supposed to be held at the Essex House, sponsored by Paul Robeson, Mary McLeod Bethune, and Albert Einstein! But then those Joseph McCarthy fellows told the Essex House they were all Communists. Essex canceled the Banquet, so Ed Smalls stepped in and let them have run of his club for the night. What would you have given to be a fly on the wall and watch Doctors DuBois and Einstein kicking up their heels on the dance floor!”
“No soap operas,” were the first words out of his mouth, even before Rose’s back hit the chair’s recline. This was destined to be a short meeting. “We have no interest in upsetting Miss Phillips.”
“Miss Phillips certainly can’t say the same about you,” Rose couldn’t help her retort as she thought of the screaming phone calls she’d witnessed between Irna and the “suits,” as she called them. “She fired your most popular radio actor. That wasn’t in P&G’s best interests.”