April 18th.  You learn something new every day.  Today I learned that ‘Nazi Democrats are all low-lifes’.  This was painted on a large board outside someone’s  house on a quiet country road near Old Chatham in upstate New York.  Joseph, our host and prime organiser for our two performances in the area on Good Friday and Easter Saturday (would anyone come? I wondered.  Wouldn’t they all be on their Easter break, with family, or away visiting relatives?)…anyway, Joseph was driving us in his pickup truck (another story) to Patrick, a friend of his who, over time, has been a dancer, actor and is also a playwright – who happens to have also written a play about Hiroshima – something he’s been working on and a subject he’s been obsessed with for far longer even than myself.  Since the age of ten, he tells us.  (He’s now in his early seventies.)

Out of the truck window I see an elderly couple – who look so sweet and charming – walking up the hill past the sign.  ‘Joseph! Are they a couple of Nazi Democrats, by any chance?’

He chuckles. 

At lunch Patrick tells us that the sign had been much larger but the owner was warned that it was too large – so he trimmed it down to ‘an acceptable size’, and there it stands, for all who pass it to wonder what the heck he actually means by that.

I stayed at Joseph’s house seven years ago, on my previous tour with my play ‘This Evil Thing’. Now both Riko and I are staying with him.  His daughter is also staying – plus her dog, Nyla, who is very cute but also very curious, pushing her way into bedrooms, bathrooms, the trash cupboard, you name it.  So everything has to be strapped shut with elasticated cords, making entering one’s bedroom at night a bit of a palaver.  (‘How do I undo this frigging strap??’)

Outside the house, sits the tranquil pond I recall from seven years ago.  Today it has baby turtles sunning themselves all along its fringes. 

Joseph has a patio deck – which is perfect for doing yoga and offering sun-salutes…

We have a morning to relax and chill in this idyllic setting before heading out to Patrick’s and then on to the venue.

The reason we’re going in a pickup truck is because the whiteboard Joseph has borrowed for us to use in the play is in the back of the truck. ‘Are there seats for the three of us, though?’ I ask.

‘One of you will have to sit on the small jump seat behind the passenger seat.’  Chivalrously I insist to Riko that she sit in front and I will attempt to fold my long limbs into and onto the jump seat somehow.

‘How long will the ride be?’

‘Only about 15 minutes.  Oh, and truck is playing up so I’ve parked it on the hill up there and I’ll  need you to help me give it a push downhill so I can jump start it.’

Jump starts, jump seats…show business, huh?  There’s nothing like it.

Joseph puts the truck into neutral, and we start pushing and then I push and keep pushing as he hops inside and manages to get the engine running, we then load our suitcases of props next to the whiteboard, I crumple myself up into the jump seat and off we head, passing potential Nazi Democrats, up to Patrick’s place.

Some of the conversations at lunch (and at supper the previous evening) revolve around vaccines and the huge number that Americans receive from birth onwards.  Seventy two, someone says.  What?  Seventy two? Vaccines?  

I realise that I am amongst a group that contains some ‘anti-vaxxers’ who at the same time are also passionately opposed to nuclear weapons.  My mind is on the performance we’re about to give and I don’t  feel I can confidently contribute to the vaccines debate at this point. 

I’m not going to say that I welcomed and willingly accepted the Covid vaccines.  This is a discussion for another time.

In addition to writing his play, Patrick has also built his own little theatre in which he has been creating the set and props for his play about Hiroshima.  Including musical instruments. And puppets.  He gives us a tour and it’s all very striking and impressive.  I’m sorry that we won’t be around when it’s being performed.  

But soon it’s time to head off to our own venue, to set up our own set and props. 

We’re performing in a beautiful converted barn (no shoes allowed) at Mettabee Farm and Arts – and as we arrive sheep-shearing is in full swing outside.  I decide against offering to help out.  

We are to perform on a small raised stage – too small really, our props and whiteboard only just fitting onto it.  And as 7 pm approaches it looks as if only about 3 or 4 people will be watching us.  Joseph apologises to me.  No need, I say, you’ve worked so hard to try and publicise this.  But in the end there are about twenty, including Patrick.

I’m very conscious of his presence during the performance.  What will he make of it?  We are not rivals – not at all – I believe there can never be enough plays about Hiroshima and Nagasaki – but I realise we are performing for someone who is something of an expert and who has his own brilliant ideas on how to express these events theatrically. 

I needn’t have worried.  

During the Q and A afterwards, he is very generous.  Hugely generous.  ‘Well, the Brits have done it again…’. he says.  He is full of praise and promises to get down to New York to see the play again but with full stage lighting and a theatre sound system.

The next day, Easter Saturday, we are performing at the Quaker Meeting House in Old Chatham at 2 pm in the afternoon.  Once again I wonder ‘will anyone come?’  Oh yes. About forty or more turn up and fill the meeting room – which approximates the size of venue we’ll be playing in New York City in a few days – so it’s all good practice.  We meet Don and Marion, Quakers who have travelled far and wide in their lives – including to Japan – doing excellent selfless work, including setting up the Never Again Campaign – a volunteer programme whereby they and other American families have hosted Japanese volunteers, who can then visit schools, colleges, communities, to spread the message of the atomic-bomb survivors and share Japanese culture to promote international understanding.

 Don is 91 now, dapper and slim – but at supper at a local restaurant after the performance, he orders the largest Turkey club sandwich I have ever seen.  I assume he had no idea just how large it would be.  ‘Oh no, I’ve had it before,’ he tells me.  ‘It’ll do me for two or three meals.’ 

Joseph, our host, has been and remains an inspiration to me.  He is a Quaker who, some years ago, refused to pay taxes that would fund the military – for which he was pursued and ultimately charged and could have received a five year sentence.  Because of his Quaker beliefs and principles, however, the judge was lenient – and only sentenced him to twenty six weekends in jail.  Every weekend, Joseph would head off to jail.  Other penalties and restrictions were also imposed: not being allowed to travel abroad or even out of the state for a number of years; losing his chiropractor’s licence.  I ask myself, would I be willing to risk a jail sentence for my beliefs?  Well, the way the world is going, there may yet come a time…

I am thrilled that he says he has written a book about his time in jail and that it will soon be published.  I promise to do what I can to spread the word about it in the UK.

Joseph is such a good-hearted man and a true friend and I feel a little tearful saying farewell to him next morning at Albany railway station.  We are taking the train to New York City. Amtrak have these guys known as Redcaps who help you with heavy luggage and cases.

I needed one in New York City as we waited for the train upstate  – but how much to tip, I wondered? In New York I offered $15, which was met with a grunt of disapproval.  Okay.  $20?  Grudgingly, the New York City Redcap took it.  But now, upstate, we have a very friendly and helpful Redcap called Mike.

Who asks Riko and myself all about the play.  Who then gets us and our many cases safely stowed onto the train.  Who I then tip with $20.  Who then lights up, beaming all over his face.  ‘Hey, I’ll come down to New York and see the play!  When’s it on till?’  Clearly, my tip was a generous one and has made Redcap Mike very happy.  Well, $20 will cover most of the price of a ticket for The Mistake.  Redcap Mike leaves the train and waves to us.  The train then pulls out of the station.  New York, here we come…

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