Come to Nordica Hall Tonight
Admission Free.
Rev. Henry Givens,
Imperial Grand Wizard
Here, Matthew figured, was just what he had been looking for. Probably
he could get in with this fellow Givens. He finished his cup of coffee,
lit a cigar and paying his check, strolled out into the sunshine of
Peachtree Street.
He took the trolley out to Nordica Hall. It was a big, unpainted
barn-like edifice, with a suite of offices in front and a huge
auditorium in the rear. A new oil cloth sign reading "THE KNIGHTS OF
NORDICA" was stretched across the front of the building.
Matthew paused for a moment and sized up the edifice. Givens must have
some money, he thought, to keep up such a large place. Might not be a
bad idea to get a little dope on him before going inside.
"This fellow Givens is a pretty big guy around here, ain't he?" he
asked the young man at the soda fountain across the street.
"Yessah, he's one o' th' bigges' men in this heah town. Used to be a
big somethin' or other in th' old Ku Klux Klan 'fore it died. Now he's
stahtin' this heah Knights o' Nordica."
"He must have pretty good jack," suggested Matthew.
"He oughtta have," answered the soda jerker. "My paw tells me he was
close to th' money when he was in th' Klan."
Here, thought Matthew, was just the place for him. He paid for his soda
and walked across the street to the door marked "Office." He felt a
slight tremor of uneasiness as he turned the knob and entered. Despite
his white skin he still possessed the fear of the Klan and kindred
organizations possessed by most Negroes.
A rather pretty young stenographer asked him his business as he walked
into the ante room. Better be bold, he thought. This was probably the
best chance he would have to keep from working, and his funds were
getting lower and lower.
"Please tell Rev. Givens, the Imperial Grand Wizard, that Mr. Matthew
Fisher of the New York Anthropological Society is very anxious to have
about a half-hour's conversation with him relative to his new venture."
Matthew spoke in an impressive, businesslike manner, rocked back on his
heels and looked profound.
"Yassah," almost whispered the awed young lady, "I'll tell him." She
withdrew into an inner office and Matthew chuckled softly to himself.
He wondered if he could impress this old fakir as easily as he had the
girl.
Rev. Henry Givens, Imperial Grand Wizard of the Knights of Nordica, was
a short, wizened, almost-bald, bull-voiced, ignorant ex-evangelist, who
had come originally from the hilly country north of Atlanta. He had
helped in the organization of the Ku Klux Klan following the Great War
and had worked with a zeal only equalled by his thankfulness to God for
escaping from the precarious existence of an itinerant saver of souls.
Not only had the Rev. Givens toiled diligently to increase the
prestige, power and membership of the defunct Ku Klux Klan, but he had
also been a very hard worker in withdrawing as much money from its
treasury as possible. He convinced himself, as did the other officers,
that this stealing was not stealing at all but merely appropriation of
rightful reward for his valuable services. When the morons finally
tired of supporting the show and the stream of ten-dollar memberships
declined to a trickle, Givens had been able to retire gracefully and
live on the interest of his money.
Then, when the newspapers began to recount the activities of
Black-No-More, Incorporated, he saw a vision of work to be done, and
founded the Knights of Nordica. So far there were only a hundred
members but he had high hopes for the future. Tonight, he felt would
tell the story. The prospect of a full treasury to dip into again made
his little gray eyes twinkle and the palms of his skinny hands itch.
The stenographer interrupted him to announce the newcomer.
"Hum-n!" said Givens, half to himself. "New York Anthropological
Society, eh? This feller must know somethin'. Might be able to use him
in this business.... All right, show him in!"
The two men shook hands and swiftly appraised each other. Givens waved
Matthew to a chair.
"How can I serve you, Mr. Fisher?" he began in sepulchral tone dripping
with unction.
"It is rather," countered Matthew in his best salesman's croon, "how
I can serve you and your valuable organization. As an anthropologist,
I have, of course, been long interested in the work with which you
have been identified. It has always seemed to me that there was no
question in American life more important than that of preserving the
integrity of the white race. We all know what has been the fate of
those nations that have permitted their blood to be polluted with that
of inferior breeds." (He had read some argument like that in a Sunday
supplement not long before, which was the extent of his knowledge
of anthropology.) "This latest menace of Black-No-More is the most
formidable the white people of America have had to face since the
founding of the Republic. As a resident of New York City, I am aware,
of course, of the extent of the activities of this Negro Crookman and
his two associates. Already thousands of blacks have passed over into
the white race. Not satisfied with operating in New York City, they
have opened their sanitariums in twenty other cities from Coast to
Coast. They open a new one almost every day. In their literature and
advertisements in the darky newspapers they boast that they are now
turning four thousand Negroes white every day." He knitted his blond
eyebrows. "You see how great the menace is? At this rate there will not
be a Negro in the country in ten years, for you must remember that the
rate is increasing every day as new sanitariums are opened. Don't you
see that something must be done about this immediately? Don't you see
that Congress must be aroused; that these places must be closed?" The
young man glared with belligerent indignation.
Rev. Givens saw. He nodded his head as Matthew, now glorying in his
newly-discovered eloquence made point after point, and concluded that
this pale, dapper young fellow, with his ready tongue, his sincerity,
his scientific training and knowledge of the situation ought to prove a
valuable asset to the Knights of Nordica.
"I tried to interest some agencies in New York," Matthew continued,
"but they are all blind to this menace and to their duty. Then someone
told me of you and your valuable work, and I decided to come down here
and have a talk with you. I had intended to suggest the organization
of some such militant secret order as you have started, but since
you've already seen the necessity for it, I want to hasten to offer my
services as a scientific man and one familiar with the facts and able
to present them to your members."
"I should be very glad," boomed Givens, "very happy, indeed, Brother
Fisher, to have you join us. We need you. I believe you can help us a
great deal. Would you, er--ah, be interested in coming out to the mass
meeting this evening? It would help us tremendously to get members if
you would be willing to get up and tell the audience what you have just
related about the progress of this iniquitous nigger corporation in New
York."
Matthew pretended to think over the matter for a moment or two and then
agreed. If he made a hit at the initial meeting, he would be sure to
get on the staff. Once there he could go after the larger game. Unlike
Givens, he had no belief in the racial integrity nonsense nor any
confidence in the white masses whom he thought were destined to flock
to the Knights of Nordica. On the contrary he despised and hated them.
He had the average Negro's justifiable fear of the poor whites and only
planned to use them as a stepladder to the real money.
When Matthew left, Givens congratulated himself upon the fact that he
had been able to attract such talent to the organization in its very
infancy. His ideas must be sound, he concluded, if scientists from New
York were impressed by them. He reached over, pulled the dictionary
stand toward him and opened the big book at A.
"Lemme see, now," he muttered aloud. "Anthropology. Better git that
word straight 'fore I go talkin' too much about it.... Humn! Humn!...
That boy must know a hull lot." He read over the definition of the
word twice without understanding it, closed the dictionary, pushed it
away from him, and then cutting off a large chew of tobacco from his
plug, he leaned back in his swivel chair to rest after the unaccustomed
mental exertion.
Matthew went gaily back to his hotel. "Man alive!" he chortled to
himself. "What a lucky break! Can't keep old Max down long.... Will I
speak to 'em? Well, I won't stay quiet!" He felt so delighted over the
prospect of getting close to some real money that he treated himself to
an expensive dinner and a twenty-five-cent cigar. Afterward he inquired
further about old man Givens from the house detective, a native
Atlantan.
"Oh, he's well heeled--the old crook!" remarked the detective. "Damnify
could ever understand how such ignorant people get a-hold of th' money;
but there y'are. Owns as pretty a home as you can find around these
parts an' damn 'f he ain't stahtin' a new racket."
"Do you think he'll make anything out of it?" inquired Matthew,
innocently.
"Say, Brother, you mus' be a stranger in these parts. These damn,
ignorant crackers will fall fer anything fer a while. They ain't
had no Klan here fer goin' on three years. Leastwise it ain't been
functionin'." The old fellow chuckled and spat a stream of tobacco
juice into a nearby cuspidor. Matthew sauntered away. Yes, the pickings
ought to be good.
Equally enthusiastic was the Imperial Grand Wizard when he came home
to dinner that night. He entered the house humming one of his favorite
hymns and his wife looked up from the evening paper with surprise
on her face. The Rev. Givens was usually something of a grouch but
tonight he was as happy as a pickpocket at a country fair.
"What's th' mattah with you?" she inquired, sniffing suspiciously.
"Oh, Honey," he gurgled, "I think this here Knights of Nordica is going
over big; going over big! My fame is spreading. Only today I had a
long talk with a famous anthropologist from New York and he's going to
address our mass meeting tonight."
"Whut's an anthropologist?" asked Mrs. Givens, wrinkling her seamy brow.
"Oh-er, well, he's one of these here scientists what knows all about
this here business what's going on up there in New York where them
niggers is turning each other white," explained Rev. Givens hastily but
firmly. "He's a mighty smaht feller and I want you and Helen to come
out and hear him."
"B'lieve Ah will," declared Mrs. Givens, "if this heah rheumatism'll
le' me foh a while. Doan know 'bout Helen, though. Evah since that gal
went away tuh school she ain't bin int'rested in nuthin' upliftin'!"
Mrs. Givens spoke in a grieved tone and heaved her narrow chest in a
deep sigh. She didn't like all this newfangled foolishness of these
young folks. They were getting away from God, that's what they were,
and she didn't like it. Mrs. Givens was a Christian. There was no doubt
about it because she freely admitted it to everybody, with or without
provocation. Of course she often took the name of the Creator in vain
when she got to quarreling with Henry; she had the reputation among her
friends of not always stating the exact truth; she hated Negroes; her
spouse had made bitter and profane comment concerning her virginity
on their wedding night; and as head of the ladies' auxiliary of the
defunct Klan she had copied her husband's financial methods; but that
she was a devout Christian no one doubted. She believed the Bible from
cover to cover, except what it said about people with money, and she
read it every evening aloud, greatly to the annoyance of the Imperial
Grand Wizard and his modern and comely daughter.
Mrs. Givens had probably once been beautiful but the wear and tear of a
long life as the better half of an itinerant evangelist was apparent.
Her once flaming red hair was turning gray and roan-like, her hatchet
face was a criss-cross of wrinkles and lines, she was round-shouldered,
hollow-chested, walked with a stoop and her long, bony, white hands
looked like claws. She alternately dipped snuff and smoked an
evil-smelling clay pipe, except when there was company at the house. At
such times Helen would insist her mother "act like civilized people."
Helen was twenty and quite confident that she herself was civilized.
Whether she was or not, she was certainly beautiful. Indeed, she was
such a beauty that many of the friends of the family insisted that she
must have been adopted. Taller than either of her parents, she was
stately, erect, well proportioned, slender, vivid and knew how to wear
her clothes. In only one way did she resemble her parents and that was
in things intellectual. Any form of mental effort, she complained, made
her head ache, and so her parents had always let her have her way about
studying.
At the age of eleven she had been taken from the third grade in public
school and sent to an exclusive seminary for the double purpose
of gaining social prestige and concealing her mental incapacity.
At sixteen when her instructors had about despaired of her, they
were overjoyed by the decision of her father to send the girl to a
"finishing school" in the North. The "finishing school" about finished
what intelligence Helen possessed; but she came forth, four years
later, more beautiful, with a better knowledge of how to dress and
how to act in exclusive society, enough superficialities to enable
her to get by in the "best" circles and a great deal of that shallow
facetiousness that passes for sophistication in American upper-class
life. A winter in Manhattan had rounded out her education. Now she was
back home, thoroughly ashamed of her grotesque parents, and, like the
other girls of her set, anxious to get a husband who at the same time
was handsome, intelligent, educated, refined and rolling in wealth.
As she was ignorant of the fact that no such man existed, she looked
confidently forward into the future.
"I don't care to go down there among all those gross people," she
informed her father at the dinner table when he broached the subject
of the meeting. "They're so crude and elemental, don't you know," she
explained, arching her narrow eyebrows.
"The common people are the salt of the earth," boomed Rev. Givens. "If
it hadn't been for the common people we wouldn't have been able to get
this home and send you off to school. You make me sick with all your
modern ideas. You'd do a lot better if you'd try to be more like your
Ma."
Both Mrs. Givens and Helen looked quickly at him to see if he was
smiling. He wasn't.
"Why don'tcha go, Helen?" pleaded Mrs. Givens. "Yo fathah sez this
heah man f'm N'Yawk is uh--uh scientist or somethin' an' knows a whole
lot about things. Yuh might l'arn somethin'. Ah'd go mys'f if 'twasn't
fo mah rheumatism." She sighed in self-pity and finished gnawing a
drumstick.
Helen's curiosity was aroused and although she didn't like the idea of
sitting among a lot of mill hands, she was anxious to see and hear this
reputedly brilliant young man from the great metropolis where not long
before she had lost both her provincialism and chastity.
"Oh, all right," she assented with mock reluctance. "I'll go."
* * * * *
The Knights of Nordica's flag-draped auditorium slowly filled. It was
a bare, cavernous structure, with sawdust on the floor, a big platform
at one end, row after row of folding wooden chairs and illuminated by
large, white lights hanging from the rafters. On the platform was a row
of five chairs, the center one being high-backed and gilded. On the
lectern downstage was a bulky bible. A huge American flag was stretched
across the rear wall.
The audience was composed of the lower stratum of white working people:
hard-faced, lantern-jawed, dull-eyed adult children, seeking like all
humanity for something permanent in the eternal flux of life. The
young girls in their cheap finery with circus makeup on their faces;
the young men, aged before their time by child labor and a violent
environment; the middle-aged folk with their shiny, shabby garb and
beaten countenances; all ready and eager to be organized for any
purpose except improvement of their intellects and standard of living.
Rev. Givens opened the meeting with a prayer "for the success, O God,
of this thy work, to protect the sisters and wives and daughters of
these, thy people, from the filthy pollution of an alien race."
A choir of assorted types of individuals sang "Onward Christian
Soldiers" earnestly, vociferously and badly.
They were about to file off the platform when the song leader, a big,
beefy, jovial mountain of a man, leaped upon the stage and restrained
them.
"Wait a minute, folks, wait a minute," he commanded. Then turning to
the assemblage: "Now people let's put some pep into this. We wanna all
be happy and get in th' right spirit for this heah meetin'. Ah'm gonna
ask the choir to sing th' first and last verses ovah ag'in, and when
they come to th' chorus, Ah wantcha to all join in. Doan be 'fraid.
Jesus wouldn't be 'fraid to sing 'Onward Christian Soldiers,' now would
he? Come on, then. All right, choir, you staht; an' when Ah wave mah
han' you'all join in on that theah chorus."
They obediently followed his directions while he marched up and down
the platform, red-faced and roaring and waving his arms in time. When
the last note had died away, he dismissed the choir and stepping to the
edge of the stage he leaned far out over the audience and barked at
them again.
"Come on, now, folks! Yuh caint slow up on Jesus now. He won't be
satisfied with jus' one ole measly song. Yuh gotta let 'im know that
yuh love 'im; that y're happy an' contented; that yuh ain't got no
troubles an' ain't gonna have any. Come on, now. Le's sing that ole
favorite what yo'all like so well: 'Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old
Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile.'" He bellowed and they followed him.
Again the vast hall shook with sound. He made them rise and grasp each
other by the hand until the song ended.
Matthew, who sat on the platform alongside old man Givens viewed the
spectacle with amusement mingled with amazement. He was amused because
of the similarity of this meeting to the religious orgies of the more
ignorant Negroes and amazed that earlier in the evening he should
have felt any qualms about lecturing to these folks on anthropology,
a subject with which neither he nor his hearers were acquainted. He
quickly saw that these people would believe anything that was shouted
at them loudly and convincingly enough. He knew what would fetch their
applause and bring in their memberships and he intended to repeat it
over and over.
The Imperial Grand Wizard spent a half-hour introducing the speaker of
the evening, dwelt upon his supposed scholastic attainments, but took
pains to inform them that, despite Matthew's vast knowledge, he still
believed in the Word of God, the sanctity of womanhood and the purity
of the white race.
For an hour Matthew told them at the top of his voice what they
believed: i.e., that a white skin was a sure indication of the
possession of superior intellectual and moral qualities; that all
Negroes were inferior to them; that God had intended for the United
States to be a white man's country and that with His help they could
keep it so; that their sons and brothers might inadvertently marry
Negresses or, worse, their sisters and daughters might marry Negroes,
if Black-No-More, Incorporated, was permitted to continue its dangerous
activities.
For an hour he spoke, interrupted at intervals by enthusiastic gales
of applause, and as he spoke his eye wandered over the females in the
audience, noting the comeliest ones. As he wound up with a spirited
appeal for eager soldiers to join the Knights of Nordica at five
dollars per head and the half-dozen "planted" emissaries led the march
of suckers to the platform, he noted for the first time a girl who sat
in the front row and gazed up at him raptly.
She was a titian blonde, well-dressed, beautiful and strangely
familiar. As he retired amid thunderous applause to make way for Rev.
Givens and the money collectors, he wondered where he had seen her
before. He studied her from his seat.
Suddenly he knew. It was she! The girl who had spurned him; the girl
he had sought so long; the girl he wanted more than anything in the
world! Strange that she should be here. He had always thought of her as
a refined, educated and wealthy lady, far above associating with such
people as these. He was in a fever to meet her, some way, before she
got out of his sight again, and yet he felt just a little disappointed
to find her here.
He could hardly wait until Givens seated himself again before
questioning him as to the girl's identity. As the beefy song leader led
the roaring of the popular closing hymn, he leaned toward the Imperial
Grand Wizard and shouted: "Who is that tall golden-haired girl sitting
in the front row? Do you know her?"
Rev. Givens looked out over the audience, craning his skinny neck and
blinking his eyes. Then he saw the girl, sitting within twenty feet of
him.
"You mean that girl sitting right in front, there?" he asked, pointing.
"Yes, that one," said Matthew, impatiently.
"Heh! Heh! Heh!" chuckled the Wizard, rubbing his stubbly chin. "Why
that there's my daughter, Helen. Like to meet her?"
Matthew could hardly believe his ears. Givens's daughter! Incredible!
What a coincidence! What luck! Would he like to meet her? He leaned
over and shouted "Yes."