The Strivers' Row Spy by Jason Overstreet Page A

Southern oligarchy entrenched in Washington, we fought in bitter resignation. . . .”
    The entire room was captivated—hanging on his every word. I had already read this portion of Du Bois’s lecture in a May edition of the Crisis . He was reading from his own editorial entitled “Returning Soldiers,” but listening to him say the words live was like hearing them for the first time.
    â€œBut today we return. We return from the slavery of uniform which the world’s madness demanded us to don to the freedom of civil garb. We stand again to look America squarely in the face and call a spade a spade. We sing: This country of ours, despite all its better souls have done and dreamed, is yet a shameful land. It lynches. And lynching is barbarism of a degree of contemptible nastiness unparalleled in human history. Yet for fifty years we have lynched two Negroes a week, and we have kept this up right through the war. . . .”
    His words were shaking me, putting me into a transcendent state, allowing me to forget about my achy rib. Everything was coming into focus.
    â€œThis is the country to which we Soldiers of Democracy return. This is the fatherland for which we fought! But it is our fatherland. It was right for us to fight. The faults of our country are our faults. Under similar circumstances, we would fight again. But by the God of Heaven, we are cowards and jackasses if now that that war is over, we do not marshal every ounce of our brain and brawn to fight a sterner, longer, more unbending battle against the forces of hell in our own land. We return. We return from fighting . . .”
    After the reading, Du Bois went on to speak for several minutes. I wanted to walk up to the man as soon as he finished and offer my services for free. But I realized my contribution to his cause would forever go faceless. My work was to be done in the shadows, without recognition or appreciation.

8
    I T WAS NOW SEPTEMBER FOURTH, THE DAY I’ D BEEN LONGING FOR . A S I sat and waited for Loretta to step off the train, my broken rib throbbed. Earlier that day I’d mailed an anonymous letter to Du Bois, informing him of Paul Mann and a few other items.

    Dear Dr. Du Bois,
    It has come to my attention that the gentleman you recently hired as a circulations assistant, Mr. Paul Mann, is an informant for the Bureau of Investigation. You would be well served not to out him, as knowing his identity and whereabouts will serve you well and prevent the Bureau from planting any further informants within your organization for the time being. Telling him only what you don’t mind the government knowing will also keep the Bureau at bay. Thank you for the leadership you are giving to the American Negro. The prosperity of your association is critical, and it is important for you to know that there are many of us working behind the scenes to protect the movement. Sincerely, The Loyalist

    From this point forward I intended to write such letters. I would keep him one step ahead of Garvey and the government as best I could. What I actually intended to solicit from Agent Mann were details about what Hoover was asking him to look for. I figured he just might share such info if I volunteered what Hoover was asking me to focus on. But it was going to take time to build this type of relationship.
    Loretta stepped off the train in a pink sundress looking more vibrant and beautiful than ever. Seeing her was sure to be the medicine I had been missing. I had no intentions of letting her see me in pain. I wanted her to feel at ease, safe, and inspired to paint something beautiful.
    â€œHello, my love,” she said. I didn’t say a word but grabbed the sides of her face with both hands and gave her a long, warm kiss.
    We entered the town house just before sundown. All I had installed so far were a bedspring and mattress. The rest of the place was so empty our voices echoed.
    As we made our way into the master bedroom, Loretta