2003
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2002
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2001
DECEMBER
AUGUST
8, 2003 [Friday]
Leaving tomorrow for Huntsville, Alabama, by way of Birmingham. The
past week of my life has been completely taken up with preparations
for this trip, which I am able to make because of the money from the
TCG Alan Schneider Directing Award [I feel like the TCG poster child.
In a good way]. I can't believe how the forces of the universe
have been converging on this project over the past 18 months. Finally
made contact, through one of numerous late-night emails, with a woman—who
seems to be able to help me gain access to the areas and information
at Redstone Arsenal and NASA's Marshall Space Flight Center.
A tough nut to crack. I had to send my "credentials" [do
I have any?] to prove that I was serious about my research. It's
hard to know what to focus on in the few days I'll be in Alabama.
I want to get a sense of the place, and more information on the personal,
day-to-day aspect of the lives of the German rocket team [where did
they live and work], and the community that absorbed them and that
they inspired. I also want to get information about the Civil War and
Civil Rights eras and events in the area—to start to understand
more specifically, the intersection of these two components. This is
the first time I've done actual "field research," and
I don’t feel very organized or methodical about how to go about
being there. Trying to keep so much in my brain—it all keeps
spilling out the sides.
AUGUST
9, 2003 [Saturday]
Birmingham, Alabama. I'm staying at a depressing La Quinta Inn
on the outskirts. Eager to get the hell out of my room, I head into
town immediately. [When I ask the very friendly desk clerk where I
might find a nice neighborhood with restaurants and maybe a coffee
house, somewhere one might sit and read, she described a place she'd
seen called "Books and Music" which looks like people could
have coffee and read, and books are sold, and she described it being
in a mall, near the IHOP and Old Navy. Clearly I'm on my own.
Though I now have an idea of where the local Borders is in case I strike
out elsewhere.]
Me, alone in the Deep South. The New [Deep] South. Only it just doesn't
feel that new to me. I still feel a subterranean vibration of is-ease.
But is this because I'm seeing it through the lens of my research
which has focused on the more violent and racially charged eras? I
think I'm stuck in the past.
From 1964-1966 my family lived in Montgomery, AL., where my father
was a doctor at Maxwell Air Force Base. We used to come into Birmingham—the
big city—for important shopping trips, or a change of scene.
I was a toddler, but the stories and my foggy memories are tinged with
the fear, tensions and complexity of that period: strange things like
my pet chicken getting run over by a car; the rat-filled field behind
our house; the bullet hole in our neighbors’ window and the note
on our door warning my parents never to let me play with "that
nigger child" [the black son of our white neighbors' housekeeper];
the African-American woman lieutenant who wouldn't sit with my
father in the front seat of the car when he gave her a ride because
if they were seen it would be a provocation to violence. Things like
that. The Selma to Montgomery March happened during our tenure in that
town. My parents were pretty naive and apolitical kids from Michigan,
and the whole thing took them by surprise.
So, 40 years later: Birmingham is a small city, nearly 250,000 people.
Lots of green, low hills. Downtown has a cluster of non-distinct, tallish
buildings, wide streets, nobody on 'em at 5:30 pm Saturday. Dinner
at John's Restaurant. Looks like it hasn't changed one
iota since the 1940s—sea green walls, beige booths, big
tables with chintz-covered chairs and clean cut families sitting 'round.
White waitresses, black busboys, all white clientele. I read a couple
alternative newspapers to get a whiff of what’s going on here
[not too much]. Art Museum is supposed to be pretty good, there are
a couple interesting film series, and evidence of a politically left-leaning
community critical of the Bush administration. After dinner I find
a more interesting neighborhood—Five Points South—somewhere
between grunge and upscale [a Gap and Starbucks are indicators of the
latter]. Music stores, tattoo parlors, head shops, a couple ethnic
restaurants, a couple hip, expensive restaurants, a health food store,
lively public spaces with a diverse crowd, all built around a plaza.
You know, my kind of place. No bookstore, though. I spend a few hours
reading [Aiming for the Stars by Tom Crouch] and writing.
AUGUST
10, 2003 [Sunday]
Visit to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute.
Located at 16th St. and 5th Ave., it's located across the street from
Kelly Ingram Park and the 16th Street Baptist Church, sites of much
Civil Rights activity. In September, 1963 the church was bombed killing
four girls attending Sunday school. An intersection heavy with tragedy
and inspiration. And yet, when you're there, as often is the
case with these types of mythic places, it feels strangely ordinary.
A church and a park.
Quite a memorable welcome from the Ticket Booth Lady at the Civil Rights
Institute. Imperious and fiercely protective of her turf, enclosed
behind windows, interrogating all comers. She has one of those silver
clicker-counters and counts each person going in, and will not let
anyone pass until she has accurately clicked off each one. She keeps
banging violently on her window to stop people from advancing. There's
a great deal of confusion at the entrance, and annoyance with this
Ticket Booth Lady, who's mostly just obstructive. She bangs on
her window to get the attention of a man with a camera, admonishes
him not to take pictures, and he makes some comment about not being
able to photograph his own history. When I approach her, she tells
me a donation is expected, even though admission is free on Sunday.
When I ask how much the usual admission is she says "anything."
There's
no sign, no other information about it. I give her $5, hoping this
is not somehow offensive [Should it be more? How much more? $10? $50?
$5,000? $50,000,000? There’s not money enough in the world. Try
not to feel guilty]. She does not mention donations to anyone else.
I'm the only white person there at the moment.
Everyone in this country should visit the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute.
The museum is a chronological exhibit of objects, ephemera, archival
film and audio, newspaper articles and a timeline marking important
dates and events in the history of the Civil Rights Movement, as well
as in Alabama and the country as a whole. It's hard to believe
that those events took place a mere 40 years ago, hard to believe the
depth and breadth of the hatred and bigotry that was so institutionalized,
legalized, and both ostentatiously and subliminally part of the daily
fabric of society. One knows it, and yet, it's still hard to
believe. The opposition to desegregation and the Civil Rights Movement
was positively RABID—the people looking and acting like infected
animals. Sick, sick, sick. It's shocking to see and hear. That
was our country: in Woolworths, on the Greyhnound Bus, at schools and
churches, in the streets, in people's homes. [Of course it didn't
all just disappear after 1969. Now it's subtler, creepier, more
nuanced, coded.] KKK robe on display—there's still a remnant
of sweat or dirt around the eye holes. It's a garment of terror.
And yet this time when I see footage of grown men running around in
those sheets I think they look so ridiculous. And yet not. The South
was still fighting the Civil War, resisting the Federal Government
with all its might.
The Civil Rights Movement: I'm awed by the heroism, the brilliance
of the tactics, the passionate eloquence of the writing and speaking,
and people's strength of purpose and constitution. I'm
moved by the way the body is used. Passive resistance. The imposition
of the body-as-will against brutality and injustice, an insistent,
corporeal declaration of all-men-are-created-equal. The inner fortitude
and discipline—that not only withstands, but overcomes the terrible
humiliations, beatings, burnings, flayings, jailings—that comes out
of absolute, nth hour necessity. One of the most affecting aspects
of the exhibit was hearing the voices in the archival recordings; not
just the words, but the dilemmas and passions incarnate in the actual
human voice: Martin Luther King, Jr., Fred Shuttlesworth, Bull Conner,
wounded Freedom Riders, newscasters, politicians. The voice. The body
and the voice.
This liberation is won with feet planted firmly in the earth.
In making the production, we must be constantly vigilant against sentimentalizing
or romanticizing this era and movement. Find the truths underneath
the myths.
In the work with the actors, we have to find the strength and nuance
of utterance that do justice to the people and events. Joseph Chaikin's
words always come back to me in this context: "Everything that
takes place is in us. The voice of the tortured as well as the voice
of the blessed [and, I always think, the voice of the damned]. We need
to liberate the sounds closed up in us. Ultimately, acting is to be
able to speak in the tongues of the tortured, assassinated, betrayed,
starving parts of ourselves imprisoned in the disguise of the "setup."
And to locate and liberate those voices which sing from the precious
buried
parts of ourselves where we are bewildered and alive beyond business
matters, in irreducible radiance."—from The Presence of
the Actor
I take my leave of Birmingham around 8 pm, after a quick stop in the
art museum, in the midst of a deserted downtown, a very lively scene.
The largest collection of Chinese blue and white porcelain in the country,
and a Howard Finster painting that suggests WWIII happening in 2003.
Supper at Chez Lulu, a bohemian fantasia of a restaurant, in an old-money
neighborhood called English Village, which looks just like one. A red
moon hangs low as I make my way northward to Huntsville. About 90 miles.
As I approach Huntsville, I see the Saturn rocket, like a beacon, rising
up white into the Alabama sky. It's in front of the US Space
and Rocket Center which I will visit first thing tomorrow. Another
La Quinta Inn, this one considerably less skanky than the last. Besides
the rocket, all I see of Huntsville tonight is Highway 72, the long,
horrible commercial strip that looks like every other long, horrible
commercial strip in Everytown, USA—all the fine chains of corporate
America reside here. I do have a special place in my heart for one—the
Waffle House. Call me nutty, but I am utterly charmed by those luminous
yellow boxes along the highways and byways of the South. I've
spent many an hour in various Waffle House establishments throughout
my years working in Atlanta, and had some of my best ideas there in
the middle of the night [they do play better at night, and tend to
lose a bit of their magic in the light of day]. It’s always open
and bright, and you can get a bad waffle and bottomless cup of coffee
and sit and sit in those hard orange booths under the white globe lights,
until all hours. Can’t beat that. I visit this Waffle House immediately,
and read for the next couple hours. Arctic blast of the air conditioner
forces me out before I'm ready. August in Alabama is hot as hell,
but I'm fucking chilled to the bone. My room is likewise frigid
cold. Have to take a hot shower, and make a pot of hot coffee to warm
up. To sleep around 3 am.
AUGUST
11, 2003 [Monday]
First day in Huntsville begins back at the Waffle House for breakfast,
where the air conditioning makes my meal unbearable and I make a hasty
exit. First stop, the US Space and Rocket Center. von Braun was,
of course, the pitchman for the Center, and in 1965, sold it to George
Wallace, then Governor of Alabama, who signed onto the project as an
attempt to associate himself with a non-racial, hence positive [dare
we say, "progressive"] issue, and the Alabama State Legislature
approved a $1.9 million bond issue with 35 acres of land for its formation.
Driving through the entrance, I see the Saturn rocket in its full glory.
As I walk into the building, there's a palpable sense of step-into-the-future
with sweepy-synthy music playing, and I'm reminded of Disneyland,
the old Monsanto ride "Journey Through Inner Space." [As
a side note, a couple months before Wallace made his pilgrimage to
Huntsville, Walt Disney had visited his old friend, Wernher von Braun
and toured Marshall Space Flight Center, and later the Kennedy Space
Center as a prelude to his secret Florida real estate dealings, for
the future Disneyworld. So the Disney connection is probably more real
than imagined.] There’s an introductory film called "Time
for Courage" which I sit through. Twice. Its sentiment is God-bless-Werhner-von-Braun's-America,
and it's composed of clips of archival footage of Huntsville,
von Braun, and the rockets that came out of that partnership, essentially
mythologizing von Braun as the visionary genius of space flight and
the patron saint [if not outright savior] of Huntsville. I try to remain
emotionally detached, maintain my skepticism, and scoff at the cheesy
power-ballad lyrics ["It's time for courage / Time to be
strong / Time to step out into the darkness / With only faith to lean
on / Time to heed the calling / To explore the unknown / Time to seize
the moment / Time
to move on…"]. I try. But I fail, and the film has the
intended effect, sending chills down my spine and infusing me with
the sense of awe, and yearning to be a part of the magic.
The exhibitions
at the USSRC include history of the German Rocket Team, and their
arrival in the US Project Paperclip is mentioned only in passing
in what is really a lie by omission. The text next to the picture of
the Germans at Ft. Bliss reads: "The initial group of German 'Paperclip'
scientists [code name for German Rocket Team] transferred to the United
States
in 1945." Well, I suppose the US government isn't going
to go out of its way to implicate itself in criminal activity. There's
a display of von Braun's office, with all his furniture and objects.
I actually love this—the old slide rule, his worn brown leather
briefcase with Eastern Airlines sticker, globes, rocket models. I'm
a sucker for personal effects. Other exhibits: the scary space suits
and box that the space monkeys were wired into for their early space
flights; all sorts of astronaut equipment—my favorite is the
beautiful plaster cast of Neil Armstrong's hands, used to make
his gloves; displays about all the benefits of our space explorations;
models and diagrams explaining the Apollo 11 mission; etc. etc. By
the time I've gone through the flight simulator, and sat in the
command module, I'm practically a convert, ready to quit the
theater and join NASA. And then I turn the corner and here's
the REAL reason for the season: "Team Redstone: Supporting
the Army Transformation." I almost forgot, amidst the razzle-dazzle
of goin' to the moon. This is all about "Legacy
Force, Interim force, and Objective Force"—I don’t
know what the fuck it all means, but it sure is forceful, and my testosterone
is fully pumping: High Mobility Artillery Rocket System, Line-of-Sight
Anti-tank Systems, PATRIOT Missile, Multiple Launch Rocket System,
Helicopters: Black Hawk, Chinook, Apache, Comanche. It's awesome.
Why do you think those Germans were brought to the United States?
Outside there's an exhibit of some of the actual rockets, including
the enormous Saturn V laid out on its side, and it truly is awesome.
And kids from the Space Camp, and a couple rides that demonstrate some
of the physical sensations of space flight. I actually ride the G-force
thing, the circular room where you stand and the thing spins, and the
floor drops down, and you stick to the wall because of the centrifugal
force. I used to love these things at Magic Mountain. Me and a bunch
of 11 year olds. Time to move on.
Next stop, Huntsville Public Library, where I spend the next four hours.
Fortunately the place is open till 9 pm. Get the lay of the land, the
librarian is very helpful, so I can come in tomorrow and really dig
in. Drive around downtown, which is almost completely deserted, looking
for a place to eat dinner, and finally have to settle for the Hilton,
which is one of the only places that serves past 9 pm. I eat in the
bar, and stay to write till almost midnight. Freezing, freezing, freezing.
Back to motel to thaw in hot shower. End of a long, fruitful day.
AUGUST
12, 2003 [Tuesday]
Waffle House for breakfast. I'm already a regular. This morning
I call my new friend, Martha Knott, the Chief of the Redstone
Scientific Information Center [RSIC]. RSIC
is an impressive scientific and technical library on the Army post.
I found Martha through my email search last week, and I come to learn,
throughout my visit, how lucky I am to have done so. She was ready
for my visit, and told me that she'd already contacted one of
the gentlemen from the Rocket Team, and he said he'd be happy
to talk to me as well as to set up meetings with some of the other
men. This news sets me in a bit of a tailspin, as I'm completely
unprepared to interview these people. I hadn't asked Martha to
do this, and had no intention of actually meeting these guys. Terrifying.
Panicked trip to Walgreens to buy a mini-cassette recorder so as to
at least appear to have some of my shit together. Martha also sent
my materials to the Historian at NASA's Marshall Space Flight
Center, and will help me set up an appointment there.
Security's pretty tight at the Redstone Arsenal [no kidding],
the car is searched pretty thoroughly, but the guards won't let
me in, they can't find Martha's permit request, and finally
Martha has to pick me up and escort me in. I'm surprised at how
beautiful Redstone is—lush green everywhere. First thing, Martha
gives me a driving tour of some of the relevant sites. We see the Redstone
Rocket test site with observation bunker. The Redstone rocket lifted
Alan Shepard into space for the US's first manned space flight
in 1961. I'm allowed to walk around and take pictures. [I don't
understand the protocol here, especially for civilians. What's
allowed and what's not allowed? I feel like a fish out of water.]
We see the "rocket garden," and drive by Marshall Space
Flight Center. I did not understand, before coming here, that MSFC
is actually located at Redstone Arsenal; when the Rocket Team transferred
from the Army to NASA, they really just changed buildings, though,
of course, NASA is a civilian agency [mostly for political reasons,
not out of any kind of idealism or anything].
We visit Building 4488,
where the Big Man worked. I see von Braun's old office, now inhabited
by a civilian engineer. All of von Braun's most important stuff
is on display at the Rocket Center, as I saw yesterday. But the paneled
office, some of the furniture, and two vintage wall air conditioning
units [complete with clocks which still tell the correct time] remain.
The engineer, very friendly, talks a lot about the air conditioners
and how hot it gets in that office. He has ideas about scenes for my
play which could take place there. I also see the former office of
General Medaris, the Rocket Team's Army boss and protector. I've
seen a lot of pictures of that office—meetings with Medaris and
von Braun and others—and have a strange sensation being there. I
meet the current occupant, a young Colonel with a baby face, and a
fleshy, surprisingly gentle handshake [maybe he's going easy
cause I'm a girl?] He's wearing fatigues. I don't
understand the uniform situation. Why fatigues in an office? He's
also very friendly, and eagerly shows me around, tells me von Braun
stories, says there’s a lot of great material for my play. Then
he and Martha get very enthusiastic about the idea that we'll
perform it right there at Redstone. [Though they don't know much
about it beyond the title which has led to the assumption that it will
be some kind of glorification of the space program. I begin to feel
a bit uncomfortable.] As we walk down stairs, Martha points out the
original red and black linoleum floor—for accuracy in the set.
I feel more and more freakish, and realize [though not for the first
time] that I am a completely different species, not only being an "artist
type," but the type of artist that I am [or strive to be]. My
work is completely alien to any reference that anyone here might have
about theater, or a "play." If these nice people ever did
see this APOLLO thing, they probably wouldn't know what the fuck
to make of it. Not that I do either, at this point.
A quick, greasy bite in the 4488 cafeteria. Then Martha shows me her
RSIC library, and lets me loose in the special collection of rocketry
books. I'm in my glory, and dig right in. I learn that my tax
dollars pay for the photocopies. Go USA! I make lots. Find a copy of
von Braun's student dissertation from the 1930s which
was based on the work he was doing for the German Army, as head of
the rocket program. Many of the books have been donated over the years
by members of the Rocket Team. The Center has copies of all the papers
from the research and development at Peenemunde in the '30s
and '40s. What a treasure trove; sure wish I knew German.
A knowledge of engineering and physics wouldn't hurt, either.
Martha calls Werner Dahm, one of the German engineers, to talk to me,
and he comes right over from his office. He still works at Marshall
everyday. He's a very fit, with-it, 85 year-old, tall, white
hair, sweet face, firm handshake, thick German accent, very Old World.
He greets me warmly, and is perfectly willing to talk, which we do
for about an hour in a conference room. The first thing he wants to
know is how I could possibly make something interesting for the public
from the very dry technical work they did on the rockets. He's
fixated on this question, and brings it up at least three times. I
try to explain that I'm interested in articulating the human
yearning, desire, passion that goes into the work, rather more than
the technical
details. I don't think he really understands what I'm talking
about. He was "Chief Aerodynamicist" and started working
with the German team at Peenemunde in 1942, at age 25. I skip over
anything Nazi related. I'm particularly interested in how he
felt coming over to the enemy side, the US, after the war, after
his parents' house was destroyed by our bombs, and I press him
and press him but he never really speaks to that directly.
I also want
to know how he feels in the midst of solving a big challenge, you know,
what happens to him when he's in work mode, but again, nothing.
I probably sound like a loon with all my silly, artsy questions. I
ask what images he had in his imagination about the US before he
got here, and he said he had thought it would be "logical," but
it's not. Don't know what he meant by that. He said his
idea of a desert was the Sahara, with sand dunes, and he was unprepared
for the un-Sahara-like Texas desert of Ft. Bliss, but said he loved
it, and was sorry to leave for Huntsville.
I ask him about the '60s
in Huntsville:
NK: I'm also really interested in Huntsville, particularly
during the mid-sixties, during the Civil Rights era.
WD: Let's start with the fifties. Huntsville was a
15,000 inhabitants little cotton town. It's now a high-tech center
with about 170,000 inhabitants—maybe a few fewer now, but I would
never have expected that our coming here would have this kind of an
impact. And we have
a university here, and we have a lot of industry. So that was Huntsville
as we came. We knew it had segregation, which we didn't quite
like, but when I came here, my impression was it was not that bad.
Of course these people are being held back. But it's not as bad
as many reports told us. In fact I was later married to a lady from
this area, and she told me that their black handyman, she sat with
him when he ate on their back porch or the stair steps, and the way
she talks about the handyman, they treated him well. Except he had
to keep his place. [laughter] But things not as bad as I had expected.
So, there were black schools here. But integration here in Huntsville,
was in my view, not a difficult thing. I think it went fairly well,
and smoothly, as best as I can tell.
NK: It wasn't like other areas of the state, like
Birmingham, for instance?
WD: Birmingham is not far away. What it was in Birmingham,
there were people who bombed the churches. There may have been such
people here,
except that they didn't bomb the churches. I don't know.
I'm most struck, at the end, by the insularity of his life—sequestered
away at Peenemunde, then Ft. Bliss, then Redstone/Marshall—isolated
with the same group of people, and focused the same particular thing
throughout all the years. It's alien to me. As is the inability
to address the subject of "feelings" on any topic. And
therein lies the difference between the "artist" and the "engineer."
Herr Dahm gives me phone numbers of three other gentlemen whom I should
contact.
Despite my initial trepidation, it's actually very useful to
speak with him, even just to hear his voice, learn, first hand, about
some of what I've been reading in all those books.
A couple more hours at RSIC, then back to the Public Library for about
three more hours. I begin weeding through old articles in the clipping
files [the German Team, von Braun, Huntsville in the '60s,
in the Civil War, desegregation, etc.]. Books on the cotton and textile
industries in the area. Slavery [not much here. Is that surprising?]
The "Heritage Room" is very quiet and comfortable, the
staff is helpful and gracious. It's exceedingly pleasant. Only
too fucking cold—the air conditioning is BRUTAL. Leave the library
a little early so I can get a decent meal. Dinner at Ole Heidelberg
Restaurant [to keep to a theme]. After dinner I have the misfortune
of visiting the WalMart [first time I've been to one of these
monstrosities], the only virtue of which is that it's open 24/7
and I can buy a microcasette for another interview tomorrow. As I get
out of my car, I hear a small child crying and then see the mother—a
very young woman holding another baby—approaching an old, '70s
sedan. She opens the car door and says to the little crying boy, "Get
your ass in the car and don’t say a fucking word." My heart
aches. And as horrible as she is, it's clear she's at the
end of her rope. 11 pm in the WalMart parking lot with an infant
and a toddler, and probably not a lot of money. So painful.
AUGUST
13, 2003 [Wednesday]
Appointment with NASA's Marshall Space Flight Center Historian,
Mike Wright [thanks to Martha Knott]. He's very friendly, energetic,
obviously proud to be a part of the team. He sits me down and asks
what sorts of information I'm after. He's fixated on the
Apollo mission aspect, and I explain that my project is not really
about the Apollo mission, though that event will be in the piece. He
tells me a few stories about von Braun and the German Team, explains
the structure of the group, that there was a very strict pecking order
amongst the members, and you were either in, or really not in. He also
goes on at length about von Braun's extraordinary management
style. I ask about how or if the Civil Rights movement had any effect
on MSFC and the space race, and he refers me to the official MSFC history
which deals with that subject— there was, indeed, a connection
between the two. [He actually gives me a copy of the book, Power
to Explore by Andrew J. Dunar and Stephen P. Waring.
I'm
very excited after only a cursory perusal of the book, as there's
a great deal of information about that convergence of events/issues!
Thank
you, Mike Wright!]
Finally, I tell him that the impulse for my project
was the L.A. Times article I read about Arthur Rudolph. Mike says that
when it comes to Arthur Rudolph and his…"troubles," that
he just has to stay out of the fray, as he's between the rabid
Smithsonian Air and Space guys on one side [who are more critical and
accusatory regarding the Nazi past of the German engineers], and on
the other side, the very passionate still-living Rocket Team gentlemen,
with whom he has important relationships. Then gives me a warning:
if I so much as mention Arthur Rudolph's name to any of these
people, the door will be shut, and no one will talk to me. I guess
I figured that, and I'm sorry I mentioned it to Mike. Our conversation
ends soon after that. I feel ill at ease. I go back to RSIC to make
more copies of more books and articles.
In the afternoon I set out to interview another of the Rocket Team
gentlemen, Konrad Dannenberg. He lives about 30 miles from Redstone
in Madison. Within 10 minutes I'm in rural Alabama, and I haven't
eaten anything since early Waffle House, but it's pretty desolate
out here. I finally come upon the Baker Family Restaurant, open and
serving. I'm the only customer. Grilled cheese sandwich, fried
okra, green beans, delicious homemade carrot cake. Definitely hits
the spot, and I'm exceedingly grateful.
Konrad Dannenberg lives in a large, newly built house in one of several
new developments which has turned the countryside of Madison into a
suburb. He comes to the door preceded by his little black dog, Rocket,
and looks dapper in dark pants, and a light blue Dior shirt pressed
to within an inch of its life. He's a large, solid man in his
late '80s, with a firm handshake, strong deep voice, and thick
accent. He's married to a woman who looks from the pictures to
be about my age, beautiful, with long blond hair. Not bad, eh? She's
really into horses, has five of 'em, and right now she's
at work [at the vet?]. We sit at the kitchen table and talk for 90
minutes. He is still very active in teaching and advocating for the
space program,
and keeps abreast of all current developments. He, like Werner Dahm,
is dubious about my project, about my ability to pull it off and his
concern lies with how I can possibly do a rocket launch and a lunar
landing on stage. He returns to this nagging question several times,
but I am not able to satisfy him with any of my answers. I speak about
the form of the piece—images, movement, text, music, etc.—and
I see the blank look on his face, and I feel like I'm speaking
another language. It's pretty hopeless. He speaks about his life
in rocketry—he's "propulsion man"—and
it's quite fascinating. He mentions all the people, places and
events that I've been researching, and he's so enthusiastic
and charming, that I get sort-of caught up in the whole thing. As a
teenager he'd read Jules Verne's From the Earth to the
Moon which was his first inspiration, and he was in one of the
early rocket societies in Hanover. He talks about developing rockets
with
von Braun at Peenemünde. And he launches into a couple long technical
explanations about propulsion and other aspects of rocketry, and to
his credit, I sort-of understand what he’s saying [I hope I don't
appear as clueless as I am].
I ask him why he came to the US after
being at war with us:
KD: I always want to stay with rockets. That’s
why I joined von Braun. You know it was voluntary to come over here.
If you
didn't want to you didn’t have to come over. A number of
people decided to stay in Germany. People who had bakeries, and things
that had to get started again real quick. I, as a mechanical engineer—well,
I might have been able to repair automobiles, but that was all that
one could do at that time in Germany. And so, of course, I was glad
I got the offer to come with him over here, and I accepted it, in fact
I didn't even write—sign the contract myself. My first
wife—not Jackie. You might meet Jackie if she comes home in time,
she's still working at the vet—and she signed the contract
for me. Because at that time when the contract was being passed around,
I was working for the British.
He was a pretty key guy, this"propulsion man," and in
the inner circle of the Team, came to the US with the first big group
of engineers in 1945 [as opposed to Dahm who came a couple years later].
I try and try to get him to speak about what certain experiences were
like for him, in a more personal, emotional context, but don't
get too far. He is fascinating, though, his story is quite remarkable.
He tells me that the idea of going to Mars is what has kept him going,
and he still yearns for it and wants to go there, wants to learn if
there are other living beings in the universe and Mars is a key to
that question. He, of course, talks about von Braun. Actually he asks
me what I want to know about von Braun, which is very thoughtful of
him, and must come from years and years of being asked by every other
person about the Great Man. I don't have many questions about
von Braun, though. He shows me a piece of a V-2 rocket that one of
his astronaut friends took into space. Then it's 5 pm and he
has to feed Rocket, and I take my leave. My head is full. Wish I'd
done some research about K. Dannenberg before our meeting so I could
have been more probing with my questions. Well, it was maybe enough
to sit with him and listen to the stories?
As I drive back to the highway along the rural roads cut through huge
stands of greengreengreen trees, the sun is a bright glow illuminating
the countryside. Suddenly, I drive into a thick gray cloud wall and
I'm in the middle of a violent downpour, my car buffeted by wild
wind, and I can barely see in front of me. I'm completely enveloped
by this storm, yet know that the day is sunny and dry all around it.
After about six white-knuckle minutes in the fray, I drive through
the other side, and sure enough the sun is shining and I watch the
storm
move away. Strange phenomenon. Very dramatic. One might say melodramatic.
Can't help but take it metaphorically, except in that context
I probably should feel cleansed at the end, but don't.
Back to the public library. Short nap in car. More files, more photo
copies. Find an article about an African American doctor named Sonnie
Hereford who'd been, with his son, on the front lines of Huntsville
desegregation in 1963. Hope to make contact with him or his son in
the future. Going through the "Black Americans" file, piecing
together a glimpse of what the African American community/story might
have been in Huntsville. Being so far north, Huntsville has always
been more liberal and "progressive" [relatively speaking]
than other Alabama towns. Still, plenty of struggle over the years.
In fact, there are articles up through the mid-'90s about
school racial integration, equality and lack of in public education—conscious
efforts through 30 years to study and correct the imbalances and injustices
of the system. The same issues over and over. Has any progress been
made?
Dinner at Café Berlin [another shopping mall restaurant, owned
by the Ole Heidelberg people]. And as luck would have it, I find a
Books-a-Million store as I drive home [low rent Barnes and Noble, but
any port in a storm, I say]. Certainly the tonic I need after the strangeness
of the day. Books always make me feel better, they have a calming stabilizing
effect. Maybe it's that seeing all those books written by so
many different people, expressing so many different ideas, reminds
me that the world is a wide, deep place and my worries and emotional
life are a the tiniest pin-prick. It's perspective and just plain
comforting and friendly, no matter where in the world I am. Back in
my La Quinta room I make a good cup of coffee and sort through my growing
pile of papers. Wonder if my project has any merit. To sleep at 3:30
am.
AUGUST
14, 2003 [Thursday]
Waffle House, where, praise the Lord, the air conditioner is less arctic
this morning.
Was supposed to have left today, but decided to extend my stay till
tomorrow. The days are full and rather killing, I've been getting
less than six hours sleep, and don't have time to process anything.
I'm exhausted. And confused and a bit despairing of my project.
Slower start today, need to regroup and digest a little. I've
amassed a 4” pile of Xerox copies. Don't know when the
hell I'm going to read it all.
Back to MSFC. The receptionist remembers me from yesterday and greets
me like an old friend. Take a little walk through the facilities, the
complex is so cool and space age! 1960s modernist boxes connected
by covered walkways. Everywhere I look there's fabulous '60s
office furniture—I'd kill for this stuff, fantasize about
stealing a chair—all that government green and metal. Love it.
Big bronze bust of von Braun in the central courtyard. I try to imagine
all he activities of 40 years ago, von Braun and the Team feverishly
working away to get those guys on the moon. It's pretty quiet
now.
Back to Mike Wright who's in the middle of a raucous staff meeting—fun
group. He introduces me to the MSFC Archivist, Bob Jacques, who gives
me a hearty handshake and takes me down to his archive. He, too, is
friendly and enthusiastic, again under the impression that my project
is about the Apollo mission and I have to explain again, that the mission
is only part of it. He shows me the shelves of books, we bond over
our mutual love of collecting—books, ephemera. He asks me how
I came to be interested in the subject and we laugh quite a lot about
how I'm doing this project without any innate interest in rockets
or space flight or space exploration, etc. [Ha ha. How can this be,
actually?] Eventually he sets me loose in the archive. There's
40 years of stuff in there, and I have three hours. Don't really
know where to begin, nor what exactly is in this room. So I just poke
around, blindly searching for this and that [Mike Wright's Alabama
Heritage article, for instance], through all sorts of interesting books,
binders and files. Lots more photo copies. I find the "Director's
Files" and pick out a folder of von Braun's correspondence.
It's all letters of congratulations that von Braun had written
[or rather that his secretary had written] over the years. Though theses
papers really have nothing to do with my project, I find them fascinating
in several senses: they show the formality and graciousness of von
Braun and the era; because there were often attachments of the request
for the letter, it gives me some insight into the protocol, structure
and culture of the organization, at least as far as this public relations
aspect; it's just plain cool to see von Braun's handwritten
scribblings. Unfortunately, I run out of time much too soon.
Back to RSIC and Martha Knott. It's late, and I only have a couple
more hours. She's been waiting for me, and she loads me up with
a stack of videos to watch. von Braun addressing the Alabama State
Legislature in 1969 following the moon landing; Walter Cronkite telling
stories of the glory days of the space program; "Moon Shot," a
doc. about the Mercury astronauts; rocket tests from Stinis MS, where
Martha's husband worked. I feel bad because Martha had wanted
to take me to lunch at the Officer's Club, but I got back from
Marshall too late. She tells me I should take a peek anyway, on my
way out, to get a whiff of the atmosphere—von Braun & Co.
used to hang out there. Martha and I have a good-bye moment. I'm
extremely grateful to her for making this such a full and fruitful
trip. And I head out of Redstone by way of the Officer's Clubs'
wood-panelled-Olde-Worlde charm.
Back to the public library. Another short nap in car. More files, more
copies. I run out of steam when the microfilm machine fouls up, and
I decide to call it a night. Find my way to a Thai restaurant. It's
the first place I've been in Huntsville that feels like "People
Like Me," even a little. The energy is palpably different from
the other places I've been. Have some sake to unwind. No more
meetings, no more interviews, no more archives or copying [my arm is
actually sore from the action of lifting and pressing the copier lid.
Take that as a hint to pump a little iron, eh?] Have to buy another
duffle bag to send books and papers home. So much paper. I miss my
family, though I'm glad I stayed the extra day, especially to
have tonight and tomorrow to process and write. It's been a stressful
week, and somehow, I'm both relieved and wistful about leaving.
I have a kind of disorientation from repeatedly zooming into different
parts of this story. Each point of reference becomes, in the moment,
what the story is about. So I find myself really grappling with what
my version of the story is, and why. Why do I need to tell this story?
It's large. And I think that I lack not only the intellect, but
the moral compass to traverse the terrain and make it into an illuminating,
moving, living, breathing, not to mention brilliant work or art. I
need to dig deep and harness all my resources, and find some that I
don't think I possess.
I have not engaged in a real conversation outside of research purposes,
the entire time I've been away. I've felt, since leaving
home, utterly alone, an alien, understood by no one, in a way I have
almost never felt before—at least not for such an extended period.
What I do in my life is something that probably 98% [if not more] of
the people in the world have no references for, nor interest in. And
why should they? It's a relatively silly occupation. And here
I am, for a week, bloating myself with "research," it's
going on and on and on, all the hoopla and the blahblahblah. Who cares?
For what? What the fuck am I doing?? Why don't I do something
useful instead of adding yet another turd to the pile? [And yet, admit,
you love it. Just a little]. Back in my room I'm on the phone
till 3:30 am, debriefing with Michael, and Rose Riordan, Artistic Producer
at Portland Center Stage,—just
the tonic I need after a week in psychic isolation.
AUGUST
15, 2003 [Friday]
I break my Waffle House habit and breakfast, instead, at Aunt Eunice's
Country Kitchen—a Huntsville institution. 10 tables with Aunt
Eunice presiding on her throne [literally a big rolling office chair
on a platform in the middle of the room, at the famous "Liars
Table"—the sign overhead reads: "politishins, fisherfolk 'n
ary other barefaced liars pull up a chere 'n' set a spell."]
Wood paneled walls plastered with framed photos and memorabilia of
the famous, infamous, and not, orange vinyl booths, fruited table cloths
and lots of old timers. Looks like a must-do on the campaign trail.
Best biscuits I've ever had.
Spend about 90 minutes driving around
Huntsville. Up to Monte Sano where most of the rocket Team lived, at
least in the early days. They collectively bought property, and built
the first houses up there. Their own little alpine village. It's
a gorgeous state park area, a small forested mountain above the town.
I'd found all the addresses of these guys in the old Huntsville
directories in the library. There they were, including von Braun's,
which surprised me, especially in the later years. I mean the guy was
considered a pretty big security risk, wasn't he? Anyway, the
directories list the following information for each resident of Huntsville
over age 16: name, number of dependents, spouse, occupation, employer,
street address, phone number.
Looking through the directories from the '50s and '60s, everyone worked
at Redstone/Marshall. Back down
in town I get a taste of the historic neighborhood, with huge, beautiful
ante-bellum homes. I see the big synagogue founded in the 1870s
by German immigrants—the oldest synagogue in continuous use in
Alabama. Another group of Germans in Huntsville. The actual town of
Huntsville is small and sleepy. Right in the middle of downtown, is
the house where Tallulah Bankhead was born. Who knew? And Harrison
Bros. Hardware Store, an historic landmark, filled with all sorts of
interesting items which I cannot carry home. I buy a fly swatter.
90 minute drive back to the Birmingham airport. Northern Alabama is
spectacular—roads carved through dense, green forests, Tennessee
River flowing wide. Air hot and damp [not so spectacular]. So many
things I didn't get to do/see. Maybe I'll come back? There's
so much to learn, and it's so complicated. Despite last night's
feelings of despair, it's amazing [in a good way] to me that
I did this trip. Feels like a larger step in my life as an "artist,"
futile and silly though it may be. I do hope that this project is worth
all
the effort, that I won't have wasted everyone's time and
resources. I suppose one can only do what I can do. Aim high.
