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The New York Herald Tribune
THE BAT SWOOPS IN AT NAZI RALLY
By Clark Kent
February 21st, 1939
The anonymous vigilante known as “The Bat” disrupted a large rally organized by the pro-Nazi German American Bund in Madison Square Garden last night.
An estimated 20,000 attendees, protected from several times as many counter-demonstrators by the police, cheered resoundingly to speeches by Fritz Kuhn, leader of the Bund, and others denouncing Jews as communists and conspirators. Their violent anti-Semitism was echoed in the banners and regalia draped all over the amphitheater, dominated by a thirty-foot portrait of George Washington displayed in honor of his upcoming birthday on the 22nd. The Bund’s national secretary, James Wheeler-Hill, declared that “if George Washington were alive today, he would be friends with Adolf Hitler.”
Yet the fascists’ fun ended when clouds of smoke engulfed the podium. Policeman Clay West alleges that “some sort of round pellets” struck the stage, unleashing the fumes. One by one, every spotlight in the audience went out, save for a large beacon whose beam took the shape of “two big, black, jagged wings and a head,” anti-Bund demonstrator Leah Rothberg recalls. This reporter, present at the event, concurs with these accounts.
The awed silence that followed dissolved into angry shouts from the rally-goers, until a voice boomed from the loudspeakers, a voice whose cold, clear, sonorous words this reporter will never forget:
“Ladies, gentlemen, from this moment on, none of you are safe…
* * *
“Ladies, gentlemen… how does it go again?”
Ripples of laughter, coughs, smiles. Then, Bruce made a second attempt.
“Ladies, gentlemen… from this moment on, none of you are… um… what’s the word? Sober? Was that it?”
The guests could no longer contain themselves. The ones seated nearest the dining table Bruce stood upon cracked first, into childish giggles; followed by snorts and chuckles from the outer circle; and then somebody burst into a belly laugh so loud it infected his neighbors, who spread it to the next table, and the next, until the whole ballroom flooded with blustering hilarity.
Bruce, in his flowing black cape and bat-shaped mask, called for order. Half-Zorro, half-Dracula, his costume was all inanity. He carried on the speech.
“You have brought the crime of teetotalism to America, and like criminals, you will be sozzled and lushy.”
The laughter brimmed, gushed, and swirled, and the only one who did not join it was the one who had recorded the words as they were originally spoken.
You have brought the crime of fascism to America, and like criminals, you will be humbled and punished.
Clark tugged at his necktie and pulled at his sleeves; they did not make suits large enough for him, for a man of the extra-extra large size. Yet he slouched over his dinner, bunched his arms tight to his chest, and handled his silverware as if it were heavier than lead. He had curly black hair and soft blue eyes, behind glasses, on a fleshy befuddled face, which tensed with embarrassment at whatever Bruce was doing now.
Flapping his cape to imitate flight, Bruce bounded onto the adjoining table. Priceless chinoiserie glasses and plates smashed to the floor, but the guests howled in delight. He hurtled down the row of place-settings, in a tidal wave of crashing and shattering that made the servants grimace and left the parquetry glittering with the ruins of a fortune he could afford to ruin.
Clark could not watch any longer. Though, drawing his eyes away did not spare him from the equally unbearable chatter.
“Hey, he really could be the Bat! Who knows?”
“Nobody’s seen Brucie and him in the same room!”
“He could be a Scarlet Pimpernel, he could! Ahahahaha!”
When Bruce had enjoyed his fill of raucous cheers and stupid adoration, he climbed down, swung an arm around the closest thing in a skirt, and guided her and the entire party towards the grand salon. Clark tried to join the stream, but straggled clumsily behind, like a blubbery walrus lumbering through a shoal of fish.
By the time he nudged and squeezed his way through, they had already trickled apart into cliques. Rail magnates with coal magnates; heiresses with baronesses; old money with old money, new money with new; and Clark adrift, searching for the man he wanted to quote.
He found upstart developer and entrepreneur Fred Trump in a knot of new money, entangled in conversation. Mostly, it was just him spinning a yarn, the gaggle of babbitts beside him chittering at every thread.
“...so I outbid his fruit supplier a week before,” he picked a strawberry off a passing tray, “cornered his fishmonger too, and on opening day, Trump Market had the best stock in Queens. If I’d kept at it, you bet King Kullen would’ve been quaking in his crown. I’m telling you, he had to buy me out just to keep me out of business.”
Before he had even finished his sentence, his listeners were already rippling with laughter. Their sham did not seem to bother him. Clark had to say his name three times to catch his attention.
“Mr. Trump, sir—I—Clark Kent—the Herald Tribune—a word.”
“Oh, the Tribune? My, my. Excuse me for a moment, let me attend to the press.”
Clark extended a hand, fumblingly, and Trump took it without shedding his smile. When he was not bloviating about the grocery trade, his natural handsomeness came through—his tall broad frame, his smooth clean hair, his crispness and chiseledness. His mustache resembled, almost to the inch, another that had lately made a name for itself in Europe.
“I gave a quote to the Times just the other day, but I suppose I ought to share the wealth,” he said.
“Oh, yes, yes, of course, thank you, sir.”
“So, you wanted to ask about…”
“Um, your most recent—I mean, the one—your new development…”
“Just one development? No, no, I’ve built at least three neighborhoods this year alone. Don’t ask me about my new development; ask me about my next one. You can quote that if you like.”
“That’s—amazingly—amazing—how many houses—in how much time?”
“Ah, I can hardly keep track! Fifty last month, and a hundred before that, and a hundred or so more are getting laid down right as we speak.”
“Gosh, that’s so many—so many hundreds. And, golly, how many have you sold?”
“We sell them all the same month, if we can, this city is so hungry for houses. Three hundred we sold in January, and we’re aiming to beat that by the end of the month, and beat this month by next month. I tell you, big numbers make me dizzy; I should have gone into a different business!”
“Did you say four—five hundred houses?”
“That I did.” Trump’s gaze drifted sideways, towards somebody more important barging in. “Now, Mr. Kent, it was a pleasure. I’ll be on the lookout for whatever you write up about me.
“Fred, has some newspaperman inflicted himself on you?” said Bruce.
He had kept on his garish costume, though he had traded the girl on his arm for a new one, a pleasant blonde who scratched discreetly at her snug neckline. The bat-mask, however fanciful, could not conceal the banal idiocy of his expression, his privilege—his existence.
“I’ll be right out of your way,” said Clark.
“Hmm, hold on a moment.” Bruce reached up to put a hand on his shoulder; the way he flinched, he may never have met a man so much taller than his own eye level. “Are you that reporter who did that profile of Getty?”
Clark nodded.
“That was a screamer! Fred, you ought to read it. The man’s such a skinflint he does his own laundry, and when his shirts tear at the sleeves, he just trims off the sleeves. Just as I remember him. Of course, you wouldn’t know him.”
At this casual barb from a large millionaire to a small one, Trump’s grin stretched wider, tighter.
“Say, Kent, why don’t you give me the same treatment?” said Bruce. “Oh, don’t be shy—I love the press, I love to be read about. You can put whatever angle you want on me. See, I’ve just gotten this lovely terrace built on the grounds, on the west side where it’s all hilly, and I’m looking for an excuse to brag about it. Come round next week.”
“Er—uh, certainly. I could be there.”
“Brucie,” said Bruce’s girl.
“Next week, Sunday, in the afternoon, when I’m not in bed and when I’m not in church. I’ll be seeing you,” Bruce said.
Trump followed after him and his girl, as briskly as if he had never been bothered. Clark was not sure any of them would remember his face, if they saw him again.
* * *
The New York Herald Tribune
TRUMP DEVELOPMENTS A DISGRACE
By Clark Kent
February 26th, 1939
“Cramped,” “dirty,” “smelly,” and “shoddy” are the kinder adjectives that some of local developer Fred Trump’s customers use to describe his houses; “dangerous,” “collapsing,” and “unlivable,” are perhaps the more needed ones.
“The house he sold me, it wasn’t even done,” says Carlos Gutierrez, a Queens resident and recent home-buyer. “My family moved in, and the first thing we see are missing pieces of floor, a missing window, walls not painted.” “The ceiling leaks, and roofbeams are just hanging loose,” says Rosa Sanchez, who resides in the same development.
Trump often boasts about the speedy pace of his construction and sales, yet by his own estimates, the latter far outstrips the former. According to him, his company built fifty houses over the month of January alone and sold five hundred houses the same month. Based on the number of houses Trump claims to have had available in December, these figures suggest that Trump has been selling unfinished homes to unwary buyers at a frenzied rate…
* * *
Wayne Manor might have been mistaken for Blenheim Palace, ensconced on a field as lush and green as any in England. Observing it from outside, and from afar, Clark could not fathom that the same edifice had been filled with revelry and frivolity only a week before. Now, its emptiness felt like hollowness.
He doubled over, wheezing for breath, while Bruce walked up ahead, unwearied. The slope was gentle as a breast—Bruce’s metaphor, not his—and crowned by the newly erected stone terrace, set with unused tables and lounge chairs. To Clark, the distance seemed immeasurably vast.
“Did Alfred fetch you some refreshments when you got here?” said Bruce.
“Yes—yes—he did,” Clark panted.
“I hope he didn’t give you the ‘22 cognac, that’s meant for guests I don’t like. Was it the ‘04 bourbon? I usually have to ask him to bring that out. Or was it the ‘98 gin? I hope not; I don’t like anyone enough to share that.”
“How—how far…”
“I’d like to shoot something first, before I sit down. There should be a critter running around at this hour.”
Bruce skirted the hill towards where it met the forest. He wore cream slacks, polished boots, and a tan vest, all too expensive and susceptible to grass stains for a proper outing. Though, the gun slung over his shoulder suited his purpose.
Suddenly, he knelt down and beckoned Clark to stay silent. He took aim. He pulled the trigger.
Something tawny and furry fell limp to the ground.
“Maybe that’ll make its way to my dinner plate,” he said. “And I’ve got an icebox out here now, up on that terrace. Fetch it for me, will you?”
“What?”
Bruce was already ambling back up the hill. Clark sighed as he trudged over to retrieve it.
“Wait a second,” Bruce said. “That little fellow has a cousin, and I’ve got a clean shot.”
Clark heard him prime the rifle and pull the trigger. He heard the shot crack the air.
He did not feel the bullet, not a bit, as it struck the back of his head. Because it did not so much as leave a scratch.
Its crumpled shell tinkled down his neck. He froze.
“Looks like I hit my mark,” said Bruce.
Clark did not bother to cower in fear, or shout in bewilderment, or threaten a lawsuit. Instead, he merely turned round.
“How long have you—I mean—why did you—”
“Your prose is crisper than that, Clark. You can drop the act.”
Clark stiffened his shoulders. “I haven’t lied to you, I haven’t misled you, and I’m not trying to get anything out of you, Bruce.”
“That’s more honest than before, but not by much: I’m well aware of what you were trying to get out of me. Unless you were desperate to interview brainless Brucie Wayne about his brainless lifestyle, it seems to me you wanted a chance to snoop around my property, look for my hideout. I’m rumored to have one, aren’t I?”
“You set me up.”
“If you think I’m angry, I’m not. You haven’t seen me angry. You haven’t seen the real me at all. I haven’t seen the real you at all, till now.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“We appear to be equally adept detectives. You tell me your method, I’ll tell you mine.”
“Can we do this up there, at least? I don’t want to keep holding your dead rabbit.”
* * *
Bruce did not recline in the lounge chair. He did not lift his feet. He did not glance away from Clark for a moment as he listened, intently and patiently.
“I’m not on the crime beat, but I was once, and it’s impossible not to stay up to date when you work at a paper,” said Clark. “So you must understand I could keep up with your appearances better than most people. Of course, none of my colleagues figured out who you were, though they loved to guess. It was an office sport.
“But they went about it the wrong way. They assumed it would be somebody unknown, so they combed the backlogs for stories of athletes and acrobats, ex-mobsters and ex-cops. That was the dramatic, heroic angle; the other was that you were a paid stunt, some advertisement or some such.
“I noticed that you showed up all over the city, in every borough, sometimes miles apart in the same night, even where public transit doesn’t reach. That confirmed what some people say about you, that you had an automobile, and a fast one. I looked up racecar models, and unsurprisingly, the only folks who own them in this city are ones who live in houses like yours. So that narrowed down your income range.
“It had to be somebody young and active, so that narrowed it down again. And somebody nocturnal—your, er, lifestyle would suit that well. And it had to be somebody without attachments, somebody even without family…”
Clark trailed off. If he had struck a nerve, Bruce did not show it.
“If I had any doubts left, your performance last week ended them. I’ve read The Scarlet Pimpernel. Now, how’d you find out about me?”
“You did your job a little too well,” said Bruce. “Just as you tracked all my appearances in the papers, I tracked all the journalists who reported on me. One did so more than all the rest, and in more detail. Yet more tellingly, he never once reported on New York’s other masked vigilante. The one who operates by day. The one they call the Golem.
“Though, suspiciously, this journalist always had a knack for covering something else nearby. The Golem rescues a girl drowning in the Prospect Park pond; Clark Kent does a piece on the botanical garden. The Golem stops a mob shakedown in Midwood; Clark Kent reports on safety issues at the Standard Oil tanks in Mill Basin; the Golem thrashes a pimp beating up his girl on the East River; the Tribune sends Clark Kent to cover a department store opening on Kent avenue.”
“That was a silly assignment,” Clark said.
“The last proof, of course, was that bullet,” said Bruce.
“And if you had been wrong?”
“I said the last proof, not the decisive proof; I already knew. The bullet was just so you couldn’t deny it.”
“Well, I don’t feel as though I’ve crossed you, or that you’ve crossed me. As you said, I patrol the day, you patrol the night. I’m not asking you to stop, and if you ask me, I won’t. Did you arrange this just to satisfy your curiosity?”
“I arranged this for an arrangement: if you’re taking on the Bund, we should work together, coordinate our campaigns. I have leads and evidence and details on their activities you can’t have dreamed of. It’ll be the crown of my career, our careers. What do you say?”
Clark tipped his glasses. “You don’t think I haven’t gathered dirt on my own? Let’s compare notes, see which one of us was the better detective.” He smiled.
* * *
The New York Herald Tribune
THE BAT TAKES DOWN GERMAN BUND CAMP
By Clark Kent
March 16th, 1939
The New York Times
THE GOLEM DEMOLISHES STORMTROOPER RALLY
By Vicki Vale
April 20th, 1939
The New York Herald Tribune
GERMAN BUND ON THE RUN
By Lana Lang
April 29th, 1939
The New York Herald Tribune
BUND FUHRER EMBEZZLES FUNDS
By Clark Kent
May 12th, 1939
The Catholic Worker
ROOSEVELT REFUSES JEWISH REFUGEES
By Lois Lane
May 14th, 1939
Today marks a shameful day for all Americans, for all Christians, and for all men and women of conscience. On this day, our government, ostensibly devoted to the poor and disenfranchised of this nation, barred a whole boatful of poor and disenfranchised exiles from Europe. The St. Louis, teeming with almost a thousand fleeing Jews, was denied the right to disembark…
* * *
Bruce folded up the paper, and rested it on the polished mahogany table. Then he folded his hands together, and looked at Clark.
“I would have rather read the news from you,” said Bruce.
“I called in sick yesterday.”
“It wasn’t detective work that told me your other secret. I knew from the start.”
Clark Kenaz finally returned his gaze. The shoulders that had hauled automobiles were slumped; the eyes that had pierced through lead were sunken; and the chest that had withstood bullets was deflated.
“Nathanael West was once Nathan Weinstein,” he murmured. “It’s something some of us choose. The Tribune wouldn’t let me report on those stories otherwise; they’d say I couldn’t be ‘impartial.’ ”
“Martha Wayne did it the easy way. All she had to do was get married.”
Bruce smiled.
Clark did not. Instead, he stood.
“I’m done being the Golem.”
“Please, sit down, think for a moment…”
“This city—this country—won’t listen to my kind, or anybody behind a mask. But I’m not giving up, only trying something new.”
Clark tugged his coat apart and unbuttoned his shirt. Bruce started at what he saw underneath: a crimson S, emblazoned inside a golden triangle, stitched into the fabric of a costume.
“I’m going to try going out in the open,” Clark said. “This is the new me: not the Golem, but Superman.”
“That’s the name you’ve chosen? Ubermensch?”
“Yes, and that’s the name that will fight for truth, justice, and the American way, for all. And nobody’ll know whether I’m a Pole or Greek or Turk or Jew. And there won’t be a mask. And I’ll fight the Bund, and whoever else replaces them, all the same.”
Bruce laid a hand over the S. His fingers sank, gently, into Clark’s chest, firm at the first touch, warm and soft to linger on.
“I can’t do what you do,” Bruce said, “but I’ll do what I need to. And we’ll do this together.”
“Together.”
His palm drifted up Clark’s chest, up his collar, up to his cheek, and rested there. He leaned in.
And with a kiss, their pact was sealed.