Holy Hill

1

Chapter 1

Reverend Major Jealous Divine was holding another open house and banquet tonight at his International Peace Mission West. Admission was, as always, free except for the polite necessity of listening to the Reverend, known as Father to his followers, speak. Not a bad price to pay for the lavish banquets the followers had come to expect.

The Mission is an imposing ivy covered brick Tudor Revival set prominently on the hillside of Berkeley, California’s Holy Hill. Named for the prevalence of seminaries and spiritual retreats, Holy Hill is a magnet for seekers of all kinds, and for those who just want to absorb some of the tranquility radiating from the stately old Victorians and Tudors. Only a fortunate few owned these historic estates, many with sweeping views of the Pacific.

The Holy Hill estate was purchased, as with all Father’s properties, with cash delivered to the bank in suitcases. The buyer was always a representative of International Peace Mission and the property titles showed the owner as International Peace Mission, or sometimes multiple owners that were followers of the movement. Father himself owned nothing. There were buildings in New York, Philadelphia (his base of operations) and now California. Father had remodeled this one and removed the garish remnants of the former owner who apparently had a fondness for Greek statues in compromising positions. Naked marble men and women were definitely distracting when trying to impress upon followers the importance of modesty. The upper floors of the estate separated the female residents, referred to as Sisters, from the male residents, referred to as Brothers, on the lower floor, making it unlikely they would inadvertently meet unless it was under the watchful eyes of the staff.

This California real estate acquisition was a perfect location for his cause, especially because it was in the city of Berkeley, known for its population of open minded types, liberal thinkers, and activists. He needed to expand his following beyond the poor colored neighborhoods back East if he wanted to establish a more universal appeal. The high educational level in Berkeley with predominantly white college aged residents was a fertile recruiting ground that could pay off many times over and offset the punishingly high cost of the magnificent Holy Hill estate. Most importantly, the Berkeley student population was known for its reactivity to new social movements, and Father Divine’s modus operandi of finding an enemy and making sure everyone knew who the enemy was, thereby unifying the group and making them subservient to the leader, was going to be easier here than at more traditional campuses. In Father’s teachings, the Capitalistic American way of life was the enemy. True Heaven could only be achieved through a selfless dedication to the group as a whole—in other words, to the International Peace Mission Movement.

The month is April, the year 1947. The atmosphere of the city is electric with University of Berkeley students anticipating graduation and the expected success that surely comes to those who hold a degree from such a prominent institution. Berkeley is remarkably stratified— highbrow educated intellectuals associated with the University, old money types tucked away in the rolling hills, off-beat social misfits with large trust funds, and on the outskirts of the city workers that had to be tolerated because the rich required service—a melting pot in the truest sense of the word.

Tonight it was chilly and the sky’s colors mingled from deep blue to orange to pink and the sea released its salty mist. The banqueters made their way up the slow rise to the mission, quietly filing past the rose gardens and jasmine covered brick walls, then along the flagstone path to the entry. Under the porte-cochère a Rolls Royce Silver Wraith patiently waited. A bell sounded from one of the nearby seminaries, marking the passage of time for the theology students.

This was the Heaven on Earth that Father told his followers was already theirs, was right here right now, no need to wait for a distant future, if only they would listen to his message and trust in him—and take some steps to change.

The banqueters were mostly colored people, or Negros depending on who you spoke to, poor but respectable, scrubbed clean and dressed in their Sunday best, ladies in proper dresses and low-heeled pumps and gentlemen in suits. They had come to dine with Father and hear his message of hope. A few white people were sprinkled in, mostly avant-garde types, curious, anxious to let others know how open-minded they were. They were all in their own way seeking something, to fill a void, find a deeper meaning, or perhaps an undiscovered path to fulfillment. Father may help them, so why not hear what he had to say?

The guests filtered into the ornate entry hall and were escorted by mission workers—the Sisters, Brothers, young Rosebuds and young Masters—to their place at the table. A strict seating arrangement was adhered to— absolutely no unnecessary mingling of the sexes was allowed and no segregation of races. Every alternating person was dark complected, seated next to a light complected person. Father did not allow any racial terms other than light complected or dark complected. He believed race was an artificial designation of a human being, an inaccurate label for God’s children, and therefore invalid. There were no Negros, no white people, no colored people. A person should be referred to as either light complected or dark complected.

The banquets were always formal and manners strictly enforced. Circulating hostesses discretely corrected anyone that chose the wrong fork or spoon for that course. Napkins in the lap, please, with hands on table only as necessary to partake in the feast. Place settings were on white linen with an abundance of heavy silver, fine bone china accented in real gold, and etched crystal goblets. Intricate floral centerpieces were placed so as not to obscure one’s view of the podium or head of the table from where Father would speak. The banqueters sat ramrod straight, alternating dark and light faces expectantly upturned toward where Father and Mother would descend from the landing to bestow their presence upon them.

The last two years had seen an increase in banquet attendance, probably due to soldiers returning home from the war in the Pacific looking for absolution from the horrors they had witnessed. Tonight the banquet hall held close to 100 people, waiting to be filled with the Spirit—HIS Spirit. Tonight he would remind them who HE was.

Lingering in front of his full-length mirror, striking different poses, he was thinking tonight is going to be crucial to not only cementing his existing following, but increasing it. Membership had dwindled, in part due to that nasty business ten years ago when an ex-follower, Verinda Brown, sued him. Sour grapes, that’s all it was. Did she think he was her personal money manager? Investments are risks, nothing more, no guarantee intended. Imagine paying every follower who lost money on their investment! The newspapers had picked up the trail, looking for blood, anxious as always to show he was nothing more than a mortal commonplace con man, a crook, a fraud. The press knew how satisfying it was to see the wealthy and successful fall from favor, especially the dark-complected ones.

Then there was that unfortunate incident where one of his disenchanted young Rosebuds had accused him of touching her in the wrong place. A few other silly lovestruck girls, Rosebuds that he had charitably fed, clothed, and housed, had taken up this sordid little theme. Sour grapes again, no doubt caused by petty jealousy over some imagined slight. Incredibly ungrateful for all the opportunities he had given them, that’s how he saw it.

On that last thought he gave an angry tug on the vest of his three piece cream cashmere suit. Lately his suits needed tailoring, to be let out as his tailor had delicately put it, and he suspected the lavish banquets were to blame. Why did he need to host, or, let’s face it, call it what it was—bribe—his followers with food? He had a suspicion that free food was the main reason people came to hear him speak.

He drew himself up to his full height of 5’2" and arranged his face as he imagined people would want to see the source of divine wisdom. The mirror showed a diminutive, rotund Negro man, perhaps in his seventies, with tiny low-set ears. The back of his otherwise smooth hairless facade had annoying folds of adipose tissue descending downward into the back of his shirt collar. His tailor was under strict orders to minimize the neckline by cutting the collars higher. He was surrounded by the trappings of a world leader—brocades, gold leaf, crystal, fine linens, polished rare woods, Oriental rugs and incense. He had come so far on so very little.

He headed purposefully out through the heavy mahogany door of his private suite and glided silently over thick carpet to the landing of the curved staircase. From here he and his virgin wife Mother Divine—formally known as Edna Rose Ritchings from Canada—would make their grand entrance. A hint of lemon furniture oil drifted briefly in the air , assuring him the resident Angels were earning their keep. As expected Mother Divine emerged punctually from her adjoining suite. It always amazed him how a young woman in her twenties could accomplish such a feat and maintain it, convince followers she was the wife of God incarnate. Even with her distracting blond movie-star good looks she managed to be taken seriously by his followers, though some privately grumbled about her very light complexion. Her self-assured bearing, at times imperious, usually discouraged any questions of authority, though. He shocked himself for a moment as he considered she just might be as good at the God game as I am.

Her constant companion and chaperone, the prim, conniving, elderly, dark complected Miss Sincere Sincerity, made some last-minute adjustments to the cinched waist on Mother’s formal gown—she delicately called it being let out. He made a mental note that they needed to start taking more after dinner walks. Overweight was not a good signal to send his followers—it showed a certain lazy self-indulgence.

Mother, whom he affectionately referred to as Sweet Angel, put her pale hand firmly on his arm, and together they slowly, deliberately descended the stairs to the dining room to take their place at the head of the table. All heads turned expectantly upwards to receive. What they expected to receive was unclear, even to themselves. Perhaps it was direction, someone to tell them what on Earth to do to find Heaven right now, present tense, not later after they were dead.

He was thinking this evening he would set the tone of the banquet with one of his more mysterious revelations, a speech he had memorized through countless repetitions. It was vague enough that most followers never questioned him, but they pondered it and accepted it because of the thunderous conviction of his voice, his stentorian delivery, his innate acting ability, and most of all his hypnotic ability to hold someone’s gaze, to make them believe he was seeing inside them, through them, communicating with their soul.

Tonight was more formal than usual—it was Berkeley after all, not Harlem. There were sumptuous silver serving dishes heaped with roast beef, glazed chicken, braised lamb, candied yams dripping with marshmallow, brown sugar and butter, Waldorf salad, garden salad, steaming bowls of mashed potatoes with boats of gravy, warm home made bread, and small crystal bowls filled with every exotic condiment imaginable.

Father was reverently handed each dish by banquet attendants, served himself and Mother first, then passed the platters and bowls to the banqueter on his right, the gaunt, fawning, light-complected Brother David Devoute, who Father noticed was particularly obsequious this evening. The dishes moved from hand to hand as if on conveyer belts around the tables. The scent of fresh baked bread mingled with candied yams gave one a sense that all was well, safe and secure— a happy childhood memory of festive meals gone by. Food was the universal language spoken here.

Now there was a pause in the activity after the food had been portioned out, and the followers obediently looked to the head of his table. Father stood with Mother, tilted his chin upward and belted out Peace! God is not only personified and materialized. He is repersonified and rematerialized. He rematerialized and He rematerialates. He rematerialates and He is rematerializatable. He repersonificates and He repersonifitizes. He welcomes you to His table that you might partake in Heaven on Earth! With that, he and Mother sat down and the feeding began.

No one knows exactly when Father Divine proclaimed himself God. It may have happened gradually over many years on the traveling preacher circuit, when he didn’t discourage the notion that he was the Second Coming. Some observers noted he did not exactly claim he was God, he just didn’t deny it, and when asked about his past he would say the history of God would not be useful in mortal terms. He refused to acknowledge relationship to any family—God doesn’t have a family. FBI records show Divine was most likely born in 1870 in Rockville, Maryland as George Baker Jr., the son of sharecroppers and former slaves, and may have lived in a Negro ghetto referred to as Monkey Run.

Despite an inauspicious beginning, George was a voracious reader. In between odd jobs he became fascinated with theology, particularly The New Thought Movement, a philosophy of positive thinking that asserted negative thoughts led to poverty and unhappiness. George was a regular on Sundays at the local Baptist church, where he was usually asked to say a few words, and he did, incorporating some New Thought ideas along with the usual themes. He was a charismatic speaker with seemingly original ideas, so he was invited to give regular sermons. Attendance at his sermons grew and George began to formulate a plan for a possible future career. He noted people seemed to need him and they had an extra bounce in their step and a smile on their faces after his speeches. Accentuate the positive was what people wanted to hear, and they would throw a few extra pennies in the offering plate to hear it.

Encouraged , George worked his way south to Georgia, picking up somewhat of a following on the traveling preacher circuit, a large portion of whom were young women. He was not a handsome man, but he exuded confidence and charisma so people followed him, looked up to him. He preached to Negro congregations across the State on exhaustive tours that were increasingly standing room only. He reinvented and renamed himself—he was now Reverend Major Jealous Divine, remembering a passage in the Bible in Exodus where God declared himself a jealous God to curtail worship of anything or anyone other than Him.

During The Great Depression, 1929-1933, Divine formed The International Peace Mission Movement based in Harlem, New York. During this time period his following increased dramatically and he was feeding up to 300 people a day. The Movement owned and operated hotels, referred to as Heavens where congregation members could live cheaply and work in the Movement’s various cash-only small businesses. Lavish banquets were held every Sunday. There was free food, free clothing and low-cost housing if one was willing to follow Father’s dictates—and hand over their cash at the end of the day. Communal ownership of property and donation of one’s labor for the good of the Movement was mandatory to be a true follower rather than just a Father Divine sympathizer. The cash was rolling in, for the most part untraceable, straight into the Peace Mission Movement’s coffers.

Divine eventually drew the interest of the FBI during J. Edgar Hoover’s time as director. The International Peace Mission Movement claimed to have two million followers. Their corporate base of operations was (and is) Palace Mission Church, Inc., 1622 Spring Mill Road, Gladwyne, Pennsylvania—an estate in the wooded countryside just outside Philadelphia—donated by a wealthy follower. There was a brief, bizarre alignment with the Communist Party when Divine endorsed the Party’s commitment to civil rights. Because he was a dedicated Capitalist the association was short-lived but contributed to his colorful reputation. Divine had his hand in real estate, civil rights and politics, small business, communal farms, and the business of being God. He and Mother Divine wore expensive clothes, drove a Rolls Royce, and owned considerable real estate—all paid for in cash. According to IRS records Divine earned zero, owned nothing and paid no taxes. It all belonged to the International Peace Mission Movement—in essence the organization operated as a non-profit corporation, although the term was not widely known at the time. When questioned about their operations, The Peace Mission Movement sold the ideas of accountability, trustworthiness, honesty, and openness to everyone who invested time, money, and faith into the organization.

Chapter 2

It was just past noon and Lenora Nona Born the tea leaf reader—her latest reinvention of herself—was peering inscrutably into her empty teacup. Tea leaves should be read as soon as the cup emptied to be accurate. She swished them around with the remaining liquid, turned the cup upside down and clockwise three times then flipped it upright. This was the ritual that would absolutely reveal the hidden truth. What she saw now worried her, though—she wasn’t the kind of psychic that just saw the good, she could see the dark side too.

The month was October, the year 1937. Her daughter Ann Dolly Born had just turned thirteen, officially a teenager. Dolly was a well-mannered girl that seemed unfazed by her striking doll-like beauty. She was actually perfect, tall, blond, blue eyed, polite, passably intelligent. She got along well with her five siblings, got along with everyone in fact. So agreeable. Nona often felt a stab of annoyance when she looked at her daughter. Absolutely no resemblance to her whatsoever. Dolly was unfortunately the spitting image of her father Emil, the no-good womanizer.

Emil, Nona’s forth husband - but why count anymore? - was already into the second year of a rather public affair with his dancing instructor. He had decided to take evening dancing lessons ostensibly to take her out dancing to fashionable nightclubs in Hollywood without appearing to have two left feet. He was sinfully good looking and ten years younger than her. She was used to the little flirtations, but who cared? She knew few could compete with her darkly exotic beauty, not to mention her estate at 129 N. Rockingham Drive in Brentwood. This time it was different though, more persistent. Lillian Myers was the woman’s name, home-breaker, ten years younger than Emil. Nona was used to a bumpy road with men, and she knew life would go on if this one turned out poorly. Men were like busses—if one drops you off, there will always be another one that comes along to pick you up.

What she saw right now, though, in the tea leaves was troubling. A blank spot where there should have been at least one tea leaf, positioned where a future event should have been. She felt fear as she focused into the cup, like going down an elevator too quickly and the doors open onto a wall. Quickly she attributed it to too much caffeine—tea leaf reading was a hoax anyway, wasn’t it? Silly stuff, like Tarot cards and Ouija Board. Dolly, stop standing there staring she heard herself say. She wanted to break the spell of the teacup. You and your sister get cleaned up, you look like ruffians. We’re going shopping in The Village today.

Westwood Village was a well kept secret. Even though the rest of America was in the throes of the Great Depression, the West side of Los Angeles felt like a protected bubble, removed from the troubles of the common man. The shops were expensive boutiques, not big department stores, where people in the know went, or the truly famous who actually craved privacy once in awhile. The restaurants were small intimate cafés that served the very best. It was right up Nona’s ally, and she wanted to expose her young daughters to the finer things early so they would feel comfortable when they took their places in society. After lunch they would visit Grace Alworth Frock Shop, where the perfect party dress could always be found

Nona’s spotless black Buick Special rolled around the circular drive, gravel crunching under the wheels. Tall, thin, pale, gray-haired chauffeur James, whom the family cruelly referred to as Caspar Milquetoast when he was out of earshot, was overly cheerful as usual. Perfect day for a drive Mrs. Born. Where do I have the pleasure of taking you? Nona wondered why James annoyed her. Wasn’t it good to be so cheerful? She decided James was probably a phony— no one could be that happy, could they? We’re going to the Village James. Drop us off at 961 Broxton Avenue, in front of the theater. We’ll meet you back there three hours later. Will do Mrs. Born. Weather’s perfect for walking.

Time to relax now, time to tune out the two fidgety giggling girls. She loved riding in a car, loved her neighborhood and its proximity to the Village. Life was good despite the cheating husband—she had the property and the children, so why worry? Out the window winding Sunset Boulevard rolled by, estates visible only by quick glimpses though thick hedges and stone walls. Now it was right on Bundy, left on Wilshire, left on Westwood Boulevard and into the Village. The tower of the theater rose up grandly ahead against the backdrop of the foothills of Bel-Air. White cumulus clouds drifted across a bright blue dome of sky. The marquis announced Lost Horizon was playing. Interesting plot, a Shangri-La where no one ever aged—unless they departed the boundries of the town. She stole a glance in her compact—forty-nine and holding, petite, with jet black hair, large dark eyes—her best feature — hour-glass figure even after six children. She absolutely had a