I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [62]
One day, returning with an officer from battlefield reconnaissance somewhere in Europe, Lincoln—the driver—was forced to slam his jeep to a stop. A soldier had leaped onto the muddy road in front of them, and was waving and beseeching. The officer bellowed, “What the hell’s going on? Why are you stopping us?”
The soldier stuttered, “There’s something wrong. Our sergeant, our sergeant, he’s gone crazy. He’s crazy. Over here, over here. Help us.”
The officer whispered to Lincoln, “Stick close to me, soldier,” and got out to follow the agitated trooper into a field. The shapes of half a dozen soldiers, hunched with concern, were clustered around a figure sitting on a log. The center of their attention was a bare-chested, bronzed and muscled, golden-haired soldier, who was heaving, sobbing, and howling. The officer, an Old Establishment, “keep order no matter what” type, strolled over and yelled out a command: “STAND UP, SOLDIER! STAND UP!”
Lew Christensen jumped to his feet, blank-faced and pop-eyed, his hinged arm continually saluting as he mouthed, “Aye aye, sir. Aye aye, sir. Aye aye, sir.” The officer, his own nerves frayed, broke down: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Lincoln took charge. “I know the man, sir. I’ll take care of him, he’s the star of my ballet company.” The officer probably thought he was hearing things, or that his driver, too, had gone off the deep end. “The officer was completely useless, like a child,” Lincoln boasted. “I got Lew and the officer over to the jeep, and drove them back to command headquarters.” He delivered Lew to the medics, and would not see him again until after Germany was defeated.
Lew’s Army experiences are recounted by Debra Hickenlooper Sowell in her book The Christensen Brothers: An American Dance Epic. In it she describes Lew as a lieutenant administering a captured German city and running into Lincoln. Lew told him he doubted he would dance again.
Berlin fell. Lincoln was helping to track down, catalog, and return artwork stolen by the Nazis. When finally mustered out, Lincoln returned to New York, bursting with energy.
He unshelved his dreams, reconnected with Balanchine, and birthed Ballet Society, an elitist organization—after all, ballet was the art of the aristocracy, and in the New World, the aristocrats were the wealthy. Several hundred patrons became members, among them many of Lincoln’s well-heeled friends. Lincoln handled everything: he chose the orchestra, commissioned the artists, watched all the rehearsals, and buzzed around, a giant raven constantly on the move. Besides Balanchine, Lincoln assembled several other choreographers, hired dancers, booked theaters, and gave the choice seats to members of ballet society. The ordinary public could buy tickets to fill any remaining places. Lincoln persuaded Lew to join the company as choreographer, ballet master, and principal dancer.
Every performance, I sat out front, mesmerized. Already an opinionated critic at twelve years old, I remember watching Lew Christensen dance and thinking, “Oh, he’s not that great. Not as great as what I’ve been hearing.” Years later, in April 1953, when I was eighteen years old and Lew was teaching me his role in the 1938 ballet Filling Station, he confided, “After the war, I was finished as a dancer. On the vaudeville circuit, I used to do sixteen double tours on a dime, night after night. But after the army boots, I could never get it back. My time has gone, Jacques.”5 This marvelous, sensitive man, mumbling excuses to a gauche teenager.
I am writing this account from excerpts in my diary, scrawled after many conversations through the years, with Lincoln, Lew, Bill, and Balanchine. “I wrote a poem