Finding my admirer

Dear diary,

The war ends, and everyone who was fighting it now emigrates to America. The soldier who took me captive has brought me with him. His name is Zandow. He intends to make his living as a performance artist, calling himself “The Strongest Man in the World.” I am to serve as Zandow’s assistant.

After checking in at Ellis Island, we set out walking through the streets of New York. Immediately a policeman approaches us. Zandow hands the officer his business card and explains that he captured me in the war. The officer is pleased with this introduction; he welcomes us and allows us to proceed.

Immediately we encounter, hanging from the side of a brick building, an American Flag. Zandow salutes, and he nudges me to do likewise. I try to mimic him, but my arms are constricted by the life preserver from our boat trip that I happen to be still wearing. Zandow hastens to help me and, after struggling for a while, we succeed in removing it. I then pull a wooden oar from the leg of my trousers. Zandow snatches it and uses the oar to spank me.

§

Zandow arrives at the office of a vaudeville booking agency. He hands his business card to the secretary and gives a speech describing his act: “I begin by lifting the heaviest weights in the world, and I conclude by shooting myself out of a cannon.” Zandow holds both of his arms up and poses, flexing his muscles.

Meanwhile, I go out on the street to look for the woman who wrote me the love letter that I received while fighting World War One. All I have to guide my search is the photograph that came with the letter, and the name “Mary Brown.” However, each passerby who bears a resemblance to the photo angrily denies having anything to do with my situation. I am told repeatedly to get lost. One woman threatens to call the truant officer.

I then approach a robo-bellboy who is standing outside of a lavish hotel. I ask him “Do you know a girl named Mary Brown?” and I show him the picture. He scans the image and replies: “Yes, she passes by this corner every day.” So, happily thanking this fellow, I go sit down on the curb that he specified. There I wait.

Soon a blind woman comes walking along, tapping a white cane before her. She is identical to the girl in my photo. Following her is a small group of orphans; one of these kids addresses her, saying: “Miss Mary, tell us that story again about the Belgian soldier who won the war.”

The blind woman stops directly before me, unaware of my presence, and answers the child, saying: “Once there was a plain little girl who dared to love a brave, handsome soldier . . .” (Upon hearing this, I stand up in astonishment and mutely point to my own chest.) And she continues:

“But when that soldier wrote that he was coming to America, the girl stopped writing and hid; for she had never told him that she was—” (here she pauses while two tears drop from her eyes) “—that she was blind.”

I gasp: “Mary Brown?” I ask. The woman is startled to hear a stranger’s voice so close by. She turns and replies. I then start fumbling with the letter and the photo that I have been carrying, while explaining to her that I am that very soldier to whom she wrote. Her initial shock melts into ecstasy. I then take her hand and kiss it. I relay to her and the children all the adventures that I have endured while searching for her. Mary and the orphans listen in awe to my tales of swashbuckling and danger.

Suddenly, my boss Zandow stomps up and grabs my arm and says: “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You’re late! Come now, my big act starts in just one minute!” And Zandow the Strong Man drags me away. The group of orphans, however, chase after us, guiding my Mary by the hand.

§

We end up at a dance hall in the middle of the city. The stage is set: there are heavy weights and dumbbells arranged, next to a sign that says “ZANDOW: The Strongest Man in the World.”

The audience is restless; they have been drinking beer all evening; now they are impatient for the show to start. “Where’s the strong man?” they yell. The proprietor of the place is trying to keep everybody from rioting. When we arrive, the proprietor is at once angry and relieved: “They’re ready to tear down the walls – go, start the show!” he cries.

But Zandow chooses this moment to have a heart attack and die. He collapses in a heap on the floor. The proprietor takes his pulse and shakes his head; then he points to me and says: “You’re his assistant – you need to do his act. I paid for a strong man, and I’m going to have one. Get out there, now!” And he kicks me with his boot.

Bewildered, I stand onstage before the rowdy crowd. I curtsey. Then I try and fail to lift a weight that is labeled “400 tons.” So I perform a tap-dance routine instead. The crowd applauds; I curtsey again.

All the members of the audience raise their beer mugs and shout “Do the cannon trick!”

The stagehands wheel out a giant cannon.

I shake my head and escape backstage, where my owner Zandow lies dead on the floor. I kneel down and shake the corpse by its lapels, and cry: “I can’t do the cannon trick!” Then I let the body drop; and I put on my greatcoat and top hat, in preparation to leave.

From backstage, I hear the crowd chanting: “Come on! Get shot out of that cannon!”

I return to the stage and raise my hands to calm the audience. I carefully reposition the enormous cannon, aiming it straight at the crowd. I load a giant black cannonball. I pour gunpowder into the fuse hole. I light the fuse.

An explosion of smoke and fire levels the audience.

This act of physically eliminating the unruly crowd has immense reverberations. It restores peace to the city. The place is now no longer overrun with mobsters. Children play in the streets.

For my brave service, I am promoted to the position of police officer. Now I walk along a clean, orderly street, twirling my nightstick. I wear a bobby helmet and the official uniform. Up ahead, I see Mary Brown waiting for me under a tree. At first I shout to her, saying:

“Run along home, honey! I’ll meet you there when I finish walking my beat; for I am a foot-patrolling officer now, and I must do my part to maintain public order, prevent crime, and build community relations.”

On hearing this, Mary Brown looks sad. So I head over to her and give her a kiss; then, taking her hand, I invite her to join me, after all. She drapes her arm around me. We stroll lovingly down the street. As I keep staring at her with tenderness, I do not notice that there is a big chunk of concrete on the sidewalk blocking my path. I trip and fall flat on my face. The blind Mary helps me up. I dust off my uniform and we continue to walk, as the camera’s heart-shaped iris closes upon us.

Source: The Strong Man (1926)