TWO IRISHMEN AND A JEW MEET AT A BAR....(with Adolph Hitler's fork)

TWO IRISHMEN AND A JEW MEET AT A BAR….

(with Adolph Hitler’s fork)

One fine spring early afternoon in the mid 1980’s, I was at one of my favorite saloons checking with one of my financial advisors (he was pouring me a Johnny Walker Black & water), and discussing the world in general with others of his clients similarly gathered. One such was a fellow-Irishman, John Van Buren Sullivan (then retired, since deceased) who had run New York’s most successful radio station WNEW, in fact the most successful in the country, and had gone on to be the first president of the media giant Metromedia. Further in his past, he had been a WWII wartime correspondent in Europe (I forget for whom - it may’ve been Stars & Stripes) and was with the Allied forces when they entered Berlin. Jack Sullivan and I had become quite good friends over the years and I enjoyed listening to him talk about his experiences working with the radio and television people, but I was always most interested in his wartime stories, particularly the one about Hitler’s bunker in Berlin.

Somehow, Jack had managed to be among the first people to enter Hitler’s bunker after it had been uncovered and der Fuhrer’s suicide announced to a grateful world. Knowing a good thing when he saw it and recognizing the opportunity to grab a piece of history, Jack was able to make off with a doormat emblazoned with the Third Reich’s symbol (the German eagle), along with about a dozen pieces of silver flatware (knives, forks and spoons) with der Fuhrer’s initials (A.H.) engraved on each piece.

So, years later on that spring early afternoon more than twenty years ago, Jack brought a small snapshot of the doormat and one set (knife, fork and spoon) of Hitler’s engraved silver to the bar at ‘21’ to show me what he’d been talking about. First he showed me the small color Polaroid he’d taken of the mat, an eagle with wings spread and standing with talons grabbing the Nazi swastika. It was a little frightening to recall what that symbol had stood for. Then he took a small velvet pouch out of his pocket and handed me the three engraved pieces. At first I was fascinated as I handled them, rubbing my fingers over the ‘A.H.’ that had been cut into each the shaft of each piece, wondering which one of history’s most murderous henchmen might have actually used the utensils I now held in my hands. Then I felt a chill as I realized that Hitler himself most probably had held them, or even Eva Braun, playfully feeding her ‘liebchen’ a forkful of spaetzle. I gave them back to Jack, thanking him for showing them to me, and he returned them to the pouch and pocketed them. I really didn’t know what else to say so our conversation soon drifted off into other subjects.

It was getting to be about one o’clock so I invited him to lunch with me at another of my favorite places, Sardi’s Bar & Restaurant in the theatrical district, a place he had also visited many times (The media conglomerate he had run, Metromedia, also published Playbill). When we walked into Sardi’s I saw that, not surprisingly, there were several people at the bar whom I knew. In particular, Bob Freeman, a close friend and long-time drinking companion with whom I shared ownership of the far left corner of the bar. Bob was a proud Jew, I was a proud Irishman, and we regularly traded insults about each other’s heritage and the prototypical predilections of our respective tribes. After Bob embraced me (he was a larger than life, emotional man) I introduced Jack Sullivan to him. They were both about the same age and, while I was Korea, they had both served in WWII, and I was sure they’d get on together. Bob told Billy the bartender to give us both a drink and, as we waited for the largesse, I fleshed out the introductions, giving some background on the Irishman to the Jew, and vice versa. Then, as we drank, I continued my description of Sullivan’s background, finally getting to Berlin.

At this point, I got cute, too cute. I told Freeman only that Sullivan had gotten into Hitler’s bunker and taken a few souvenirs. Without specifying anything, I asked Sullivan to give me his pouch. I slid out one piece (it happened to be a fork) and handed it to Freeman with no explanation. He glanced at the fork in his hand and looked back at me with a quizzical, “So?”. I told him it was one of Sullivan’s souvenirs from Hitler’s bunker and that he should turn it over and look at the engraved initials on the shaft. When he saw the “A.H.” and it quickly sunk in as to what he was holding and who else might have held it in the past, he shrieked and threw his hand in the air, the fork flying out of his grasp and clattering across the tiled floor, startling everyone at the bar as well as those in the foyer waiting for tables. I should have known better. Just a few hours earlier, as an Irishman, I had felt a chill as I began to realize what I was holding and who might have held it years ago in 1945. Freeman, the Jew, didn’t feel a chill, he felt the flames of hell. I was stupid not to realize that my Jewish friend just might have a more troubled reaction than I did.

Not really knowing what to do, I chased down Hitler’s fork, wiped it off with my handkerchief, and slipped it back to Jack Sullivan. Even my fellow-Irishman expressed his disapproval, giving me a withering look as he placed the fork back into the pouch and jammed it into his pocket and out of sight. Sullivan’s dirty look, on top of Freeman’s fevered reaction to what I’d done, made me realize how insensitive I’d been. It had been a mere 40 years since the defeat of Nazi Germany and, while the memory of history’s most inhumane gang of bullies and cutthroats still lingered, it was more like a fuzzy daguerreotype than a clearly defined digital image. Society at large, particularly the cosseted citizens of Fortress America (including myself), was quickly forgetting that evil does exist throughout the world and, like the poor, will always be with us. And, if my behavior was any indication, so would stupidity.

Happily for me, the disapproval of my Irish friend and the disappointment of my Jewish friend were both short-lived and slowly dissipated over lunch. I insisted that they both be my guests. Sullivan was ready to bolt but acquiesced as he saw Freeman hugging me, forgiving me and reaffirming our friendship (I did say that he was a more than slightly emotional human being). The three of us walked out from the bar, leaving behind an uncomprehending bartender and his extremely puzzled customers. We were led to our corner booth and, as equanimity slowly crept back into our little group, Sardi’s linguine with clam sauce for the two Irishmen, a Chicken Salad for the Jew and a bottle of wine erased the specter of Hitler’s fork.

I often think about that day and my own insensitivity, especially as I consider the significantly increased levels of complacency and denial that exist today. Some politicians too easily brand their opponents as ‘Nazi’s’, with no recognition of what that term really connotes. There are constant reminders of evil all around us and yet we find ourselves berated by the proponents of ‘moral equivalency’ whenever we dare cry, “beware!”

Forgive me for sermonizing. What started out to be a remembrance of two old friends, an illustration of how one man’s souvenir, through another man’s thoughtlessness, can become another man’s nightmare, has somehow morphed into a diatribe. However, in the final analysis, I’m sure both my Irish friend and my Jewish friend would appreciate this Irishman's sense of contrition and might be nodding their heads in approval.

GET THE HELL OUT OF TOWN - Forrest Tucker

GET THE HELL OUT OF TOWN

(FORREST TUCKER)

In 1975, New York City was practically insolvent. In response to the worst financial crisis in its history, the Municipal Assistance Corp. (MAC) was formed by New York State to sell billions of dollars in bonds to keep the city solvent. Though I had nothing to do with the crisis, either as a contributing cause or a possible cure, I was a participant in a banking industry meeting where the city’s crisis became the focal point. At the time, I was the partner responsible for the banking industry at a major consulting firm and was often asked to speak at industry functions. I’d been invited to speak at a BANK ADMINISTRATION INSTITUTE conference in New York whose original theme (new services for consumers and corporations) was jettisoned at the last minute, in favor of the more pressing financial matters facing New York City. However, even though the focus of the BAI meeting had undergone drastic change, for some reason, they kept me on the program.

Harrison J. Goldin, the Comptroller of The City of New York, had been scheduled to lead off as the keynote speaker and I was to follow him. On the morning of the day before the meeting, I received a phone call informing me that I would now be the opening speaker as Mr. Goldin would be in a critical early morning meeting with Felix Rohatyn, the Lazard Frères partner who was serving as chairman of MAC. This was the meeting that everyone had been waiting for, where Gotham’s fiscal future might be determined. Not only was I moved up, but they also requested that I be prepared to extend beyond the 35 to 40 minutes originally allotted in the event that Mr. Goldin might meet with further delay. So, not only was I to address an assemblage of desperate bankers who would be sitting on the edge of their seats awaiting Mr. Goldin’s report on his do-or-die meeting with Felix Rohatyn, with little or no interest in what I would have to say, I might also have to do a song and dance, vamping to fill time.

I did a lot of speech making in those days, and always felt comfortable no matter what I was asked to talk about. My philosophy was that, to the extent that I was an invited speaker standing at a lectern before any audience, a majority of them had to assume that I had something worth listening to or I wouldn’t have been invited and they wouldn’t be there in the first place. But this was different. In the final analysis, whether or not I knew what I was talking about or how well or poorly I spoke was not the issue. All this audience would want to hear was Jay Goldin’s report of what happened at the mountaintop, the newly developed plan for the city’s rescue. With Goldin waiting in the wings, the only thing they’d want to hear from me would be, “And in conclusion, -----“.

That evening, rather than going home to Connecticut, I decided to stay in town to work out changes in my speech to make it more appropriate to the evolving situation. I took a room at the New York Athletic Club and spent a futile few hours trying to figure out what to do, making no progress at all. At about 9 o’clock I gave up, deciding I’d have to wing it at the meeting and it really didn’t matter anyway, and went down to have a drink in the 3rd floor grill. At this time of night, the bar was usually not very busy and there was only one other customer. I ordered my Johnny Walker Black and water, reached for the pretzels, gazed over at my bar mate and found myself looking into a familiar face. It didn’t take long to realize that it was Forrest Tucker.

It would have been difficult not to recognize him – his career included a score of movies in the 1940’s and 1950’s (eventually AUNTIE MAME), television (especially F TROOP) and stage, both Broadway and national touring companies – plus, at 6’4” or so, he was hard to miss.

We introduced ourselves and started talking just as any two members of a club might do. He was older than I and quite famous in his own right, so early in our conversation I addressed him as Mr. Tucker. He shushed me and said, “Just call me Tuck, ..…like all my friends do.” When he found out I lived in nearby Connecticut, he asked me why the hell I was staying here at the club and not at home with my family. I explained the whole speech business and his reaction was simple. As close as I can recall his words and his tone of 30+ years ago, his advice went something like this.

“Just do what I do. When you’ve got an audience that ain’t listening, there ain’t much you can do. You can’t change the script, you can’t talk faster, you can’t talk louder. You just talk softer so they got to concentrate harder to hear you. And if they don’t even try, fuck ‘em, they don’t deserve you anyway. Say your piece and get the hell out of town.”

When I finally stopped laughing, I asked him why he was staying at the club. He explained that he’d just that day wrapped up rehearsals for the National Company of the Tony Award and Pulitzer Prize winning drama THAT CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON and would be leaving late tomorrow to start touring the country. He didn’t particularly like hotels and, besides, here at the club he couldn’t get into trouble. If he were out drinking in public at some bar or other, there was a good chance he’d attract attention and either do something unwise or, more likely as had happened to him several times in the past, be accused of doing something he hadn’t done. There was safety here in the all-male NYAC.

So, we spent the next two hours drinking and talking, and I found him to be a delightful companion, not at all impressed with his own celebrity. It was a rambling conversation, with my asking him about the people he had worked with (Gary Cooper, John Wayne, Hepburn & Tracy, et al) and while I only remember sketchy details about what he said, I do recall that he didn’t have a nasty word to say about anyone. As it approached 11pm, I made my excuses. I had to be up early to get downtown for the banking conference, so we shook hands goodbye and I left my new acquaintance Tuck alone at the bar, never expecting to see him again. I could not have been more mistaken.

The next morning I did my thing, made my mostly original, inappropriate for the occasion, only slightly altered speech as if nothing else mattered, recording it for later transcription. I also tried Tuck’s approach of speaking more softly but that didn’t seem to make any difference. After about 30 minutes of torture, my deliverance arrived. I caught sight of the event coordinator standing with Jay Goldin off stage to my left, and gesticulating for me to finish. I abruptly concluded my remarks, received a slight smattering of polite, though relieved applause from an audience that couldn’t have known (or cared) that I was more relieved than they. The coordinator walked out on stage, thanked me for my ‘insightful’ comments and announced that Mr. Goldin had arrived and would address the assemblage in about 10 minutes. As the audience started to take their comfort break, I began to unhook the tape recorder I had set up in the lectern. The coordinator asked me if I had a blank tape and, if so, could I leave the recorder in place so they could tape Mr. Goldin’s remarks. I had no desire to stick around any longer than necessary, just wanted to get back to my office, and agreed to leave my tape recorder for Mr. Goldin’s use as long as he promised to return it to my office within a few days.

I got back uptown to my office just before 11am and, by the time I got caught up on what I had to do, it was almost 1:30 in the afternoon. I left my office and walked down to Sardi’s Restaurant on West 44th Street in the theatrical district. As I strode through the front door and turned right into the ‘little bar’, I was greeted by the bartender, Croatian Freedom Fighter Jack Custera and by most of the people at the bar. (I had been there once or twice before). Surprisingly, I was also greeted by a very tall man called Forrest Tucker whom I had last seen less than 15 hours ago. He had a flight out of La Guardia in a few hours, heading for the first city on the national tour of THAT CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON, and decided to drop in at Sardi’s before heading out. He asked for an update on the morning’s proceedings and I told him that I followed his advice and the only thing that worked was “…say your piece and get the hell out of town.” At about 4 o’clock, we left Sardi’s together, he hailed a cab, dropped me at Grand Central Station for my commute ride home and continued on to La Guardia to catch his flight. Once more, I never expected to see him again and once more I was wrong.

Early the next morning, I flew from New York to St. Louis, to have lunch with the owner of a credit card processing company with whom I had done business over the last several years. He picked me up at the airport and, after brief tour of his new facility, drove me to a downtown restaurant where he was obviously well known. As we walked into the restaurant and the Maitre d’ enthusiastically greeted my host, I also received an enthusiastic greeting. From my left came a shout in a recently familiar voice, “Hey Jack. What the hell you doing here?” Forrest Tucker was sitting in booth against the wall, one long arm waving over his head and a big smile on his face. I tried to stay cool and nonchalantly waved back with a “Hey Tuck. Just had to get the hell out of town.” He laughed and winked and returned to his companions and I proceeded as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. My host was astonished and, as much as he tried to get me to explain, I pretended that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

So, within the space of less than three days, I had three accidental meetings with Forrest Tucker in three different places in two cities a thousand miles apart. As he had suggested, both of us had said what we had to say and then got "the hell out of town.”

A CRITIC, AN ACTOR AND A CIVILIAN - Alan North

A CRITIC, AN ACTOR AND A CIVILIAN
WALK INTO A BAR.......

ALAN NORTH

“Clive Barnes (1927-2008) ….A longtime drama and dance critic - at the New York Post for 30 years and The New York Times for 13 more before that – died yesterday at the age of 81. Playbill.com referred to him as the most powerful theater critic in the city. Bloomberg.com stretched that to the entire country.” New York Post, Nov. 20, 2008

Years past, when the theater was grander, the print media more relevant and Broadway the metaphor for barely reachable dreams, opening nights were the things of which those dreams were sometimes made. After the curtain came down on the final scene, the first-nighters, mostly friends of the producers, fellow-actors and other kindred souls, loudly voiced their huzzahs and clapped their hands until bloody while demanding just one more curtain call, all the time telling everyone within hearing how marvelous the evening had been. But those on the other side of the curtain, the working actors who long ago realized that they were in a profession where all jobs were temporary and that fame was a fickle mistress, knew that the opening night crowd out front was not the final arbiter. There was another audience whose voice would determine just how temporary their current employment might be - the Drama Critics from New York’s daily newspapers.

The drama critics, from Brooks Atkinson to Bosley Crowther to Walter Kerr to Clive Barnes, and all those in between, held the power of life and death and wielded it mercilessly but fairly. Their reviews were usually available within and hour or two after the opening night’s final curtain and all that the producers, players and other perspiring parties could do was wait. They mostly chose to wait at one of the theatrical district’s watering holes, particularly Sardi’s Bar and Restaurant, located next door to The New York Times, home of the most influential (read ‘powerful’) critic, who, for a significant period of time was Clive Barnes. When his review finally descended, shortly after midnight, from the Time’s premises above to the crowded oasis below, careers were enhanced or retarded, investments multiplied or erased, egos inflated or destroyed and, most importantly for the creative person, professional self worth was quantified and qualified, for better or for worse.

All of this occurred to me as I read Clive Barnes’ death notice and recalled one time when I was witness to one of his reviews, albeit not a formal one and not delivered after midnight to a waiting crowd at Sardi’s. While it was delivered in Sardi’s and it was a review from Clive Barnes, what was special was that it was delivered in the middle of the day, verbally and in person by Clive Barnes to an actor not expecting it.

The story is simple and I tell it only as a tribute to a dear old friend who died in January 2000. Alan North was a character actor (he hated to be called that) who had a long and busy career on stage and in the movies and television. He was one of those working actors whose name might not be particularly well known, but you know you’ve seen him before. Movies like Plaza Suite, Highlander, The Fourth Protocol, Lean On Me, Glory, See No Evil-Hear No Evil, Serpico, The Formula are examples of an impressive string of high profile films in which Alan would portray important featured characters and do it extremely well. He also did a lot of work on stage and television, with his most noticeable TV role in the early-'80s police spoof Police Squad, as Leslie Nielsen’s boss, Captain Ed Hocken. This show developed a cult-like following, especially on college campuses, and was the forerunner of The Naked Gun movies.

He was so well regarded that during the last decade plus of his career, as macular degeneration rendered him legally blind, he was still in demand. His wife June, an actress herself, would work with him on his scripts and accompany him on location, including Finland where they shot the opening scene of The Fourth Protocol and where she kept threatening to run off with Pierce Brosnan. On his death, the New York Times thought enough of him to run a very large obituary in the lead position of the obituary section. But, I do not think that he would have been completely pleased with obituary's heading, "Alan North, 79, Character Actor..."

At any rate, shortly after noon on a warm and sunny late Spring Wednesday, 20 or so years ago, Alan and I were standing on the outer edge of the Matinee day crowd packed in at Sardi’s Little Bar, trying to figure out where to enjoy a quiet lunch. We had just decided to flee the crowd and walk through Shubert Alley over to Patsy & Carl’s Theater Bar on 45th Street when a short, middle-aged man with a wispy sweep of hair reaching across one side of a high forehead and a wry, almost lopsided smile on his face, approached. He stopped in front of us and, as I looked on, addressed Alan as ‘Mr. North’ and politely asked to be excused for his intrusion, with more than a hint of Britain in his voice. It took me a moment to realize it was Clive Barnes, but Alan knew immediately, and as Mr. Barnes proceeded to explain his ‘intrusion’, my surprise turned to astonishment, as did Alan’s.

As a private, theater-going citizen, not in his official role as Drama Critic, he had recently seen Alan in a revival of a play that had always been a particular favorite of his, John Osborne’s The Entertainer. Alan starred as Archie Rice, the entertainer of the title, a music-hall performer in an age when the music halls had all but disappeared. Now shabby in middle age, Archie produces and performs in variety shows that could best be described as tawdry and desperate, as he hangs on and perseveres, a kind of heroic failure, a sympathetic figure. Both the play (1957) and the movie (1960) had Lawrence Olivier as Archie Rice and received many nominations and won many awards.

Clive Barnes was more than enthusiastic in his praise of Alan’s portrayal of Archie Rice, and indicated that he was pleased to have this opportunity to tell him in person. Then came the bolt from the blue. He went on to tell Alan that he rated his performance of the role superior to Olivier’s. Clive Barnes honestly thought that Alan North had been a better actor than Lawrence Olivier, at least in this one particular role. I could only imagine what was going through my friend’s mind as this bombshell dropped. Here was a working actor who had enough talent and perseverance to sustain a career throughout his adult life, enabling him to support his family while doing what he loved to do. He was now being compared by a legendary theater critic to the legendary actor, and more than favorably. It was enough to put an exclamation point to a career, to justify any actor’s entire existence.

Clive Barnes said his goodbyes, repeating his apologies for intruding, and continued on his way. Alan and I just stood speechless, looking at each other. I assume I had a look of shock on my face, but his was beginning to move from an expression of disbelief to unspeakable jubilation. He laughed out loud, attracting some puzzled stares from the bar crowd, then grabbed my arm and led me outside onto 44th Street.

We never did have lunch that day. He just wanted to be able to savor the experience. The two of us just walked around the theater district aimlessly for about an hour, Alan seeming to float at least 12 inches off the ground, myself just quietly riding shotgun.

In the years following, there were only occasional mentions of the incident between us and I was never sure how many people he might have told about it. After he died in January 2000, his wife June asked me if I would make a few remarks at a memorial gathering she had arranged upstairs at Sardi’s in the Belasco Room. I felt privileged to and concluded my remembrances that evening with this story. From the reactions afterwards, I could only conclude that Alan had considered that meeting with Clive Barnes so special and personal that he’d shared it with no one but June. And she was pleased that night that, finally, all of his friends would now know in what high esteem Alan North was held by Clive Barnes.

Now that these two professionals are both gone, it’s possible that they’re in close enough proximity to continue that conversation from years ago without having to concern themselves with being overheard by this amateur, this civilian.

JACK DEENEY
November 23, 2008