Clifford's Blues by John A. Williams Read Free Book Online Page A

practice her English, since she thinks it will make her high-class. But if Bernhardt caught her down here, there’d be hell to pay. He’d go tougher on me than Dieter Lange, ’cause she could sweet-talk her way out with him. They ought to know I don’t want any trouble. But they’d kick my ass anyway.
    When I heard the creak on the stairs, I just managed to slip my sheets of paper behind the picture of Hitler that hangs on my wall. Then I started to go out and made believe she startled me. She said she had something for me that maybe I could read to her. That would be a good way to help her learn English, she said. She showed me a magazine. I said we should go upstairs where the light was better. The magazine was two years old: International Literature . It had a picture of Langston Hughes in it, and some of his poetry. It was printed in Russian, German, English, and French. Would I please read the English? Langston Hughes was the famous writer friend of my cowboy. He seems to have liked Russia, judging from the poems and what the magazine said about him. I hated Moscow. I wonder if Hughes is still in Russia, if I could write to him care of this magazine for help.… Of course, I had to try to explain the poems to Anna (not that I understood all of them), as well as the words used in them. She sat very near and paid close attention. When we were finished, I told her Dieter Lange would be angry to find such a magazine in his house, a magazine with “Revolution” appearing at least once on every page. But, I said, if she could bring me anything written in English, we could do much better with her lessons. (And maybe I could find out more about what was going on, even if it was too late to do anything about it.) Anything would be better than that “This is a table, this is a chair” shit.
    Thursday, Sept. 27, 1934
    Word about Prosecutor Winterberger. Looks like I struck out again. Winterberger’s been replaced by Prosecutor Barnickel, and all the cases Winterberger brought against the SS (and the SA ) have been dismissed. The SS can do anything it wishes, Dieter Lange said. Anything.
    Saturday, November 11, 1934—Armistice Day
    It seems that most of the inmates coming into camp right now are fruits. A few Reds and Greens, but mostly queers. “Filth,” they’re called. Even Dieter Lange calls us that. “Filth.”
    Tuesday, December 25, 1934
    When Dieter Lange and Anna are out of the house, there’s not much for me to do. When they are around, they don’t care how good I do things, if the things I do look okay. Like playing the piano: you can make shit sound good without trying. Just throw in a lot of dinkles. Arpeggios and glissandos, my colonel called them. Drunks don’t care. And I’m tired of playing for drunks. But I can hold out as long as I can play for myself. Like I did today. All day.
    They went to Anna’s folks for Christmas. Back day after tomorrow. Dieter Lange gave me a bottle of cologne, and Anna gave me a chicken to cook for my dinner, which I did, with stuffing. Of course, I helped myself to the best of Dieter Lange’s liquor and wine stores.
    About the playing: Dieter Lange thinks that practice makes me play better at parties, but, like his guests, he just likes the beat. He thinks that’s the main thing about music, and that Negroes play it better than anyone else, because the beat is like tom-toms. What a dumbbell. Sometimes I ask myself, if this nightmare ended tomorrow, would I be able to make music, to play with a band or be good enough to play in a cabaret? Would I be any good at all?
    Today the music started to come out slow. Blues and shuffle, sad stuff. I didn’t want to play that. I moved to some faster stuff, but that only sounded frantic and scared, which is how I am most of the time. But I wanted to remember the good times and to hope that this situation won’t last much longer. I think I was