Jim went to church, and looked about for the Haas family. Mrs. Haas, a little plump woman, sat with her daughters and her son, and her face was puffy and red with past crying. She held Walter’s hand tightly, and from time to time she would try to smile at him. A moment later she would put up her handkerchief to her lips. After the services, which Jim did not hear at all, he went to the minister in the latter’s study, and a few minutes later they left together.
They found Charles in his bathrobe, in the parlor, with the morning paper, unread, on his knees. All the life and strength has gone out of him, thought Mr. Haas, as Charles looked at them silently and did not move. Jim exchanged a glance with the minister, then went to his room, and Mr. Haas sat down near Charles.
He polished his glasses, studied Charles gravely. “I see I’m not the only father who didn’t sleep all night, Charles,” he said. “I thought I’d never get through the services this morning. Luckily, I had written out the complete sermon, and read it verbatim.”
Charles said, incredulously: “You conducted the services—today?”
“Well, who else?” asked Mr. Haas. “My assistant is taking his vacation this week, and next. Who was to take my place? All those people depended on me. They have their own troubles. I can’t put mine on their shoulders, too.”
Charles looked away from him.
“My wife was there, also,” went on the minister, gently. “She and I and Walter sat together all night, and I think we all cried.”
Charles turned to him. The minister said: “I’m glad my boy can feel so deeply for those who are suffering, all the other boys who are in a war not of their own making. I’m glad he wants to help them. He has the true spirit of a minister, just as Jim has the true spirit of a doctor. It is terrible for us, but we can be proud of them.”
All Charles’ features seemed to squeeze together with agony. The minister went on: “It’s not like an army—the Red Cross. I have a feeling the boys will be home by Christmas. In fact, I think that is the general arrangement, unless, of course, the war ends sooner. At the very worst, they’ll only be missing a year of college. What is that, compared with what they intend to do? Besides, they’ll be men when they return; they’ll have seen so much that they’ll be a better minister and a better doctor for it.”
Charles rested his elbows suddenly on his knees and dropped his face into his hands.
Mr. Haas looked at him with compassion. “What does it matter, when young men are wounded and need help, that this war’s an evil thing and ought not to have happened? Walter has no romantic notions about the ‘rightness’ of this war; he knows all the background of it, for I’ve told him, as you’d told Jim, Charles. The boys think it piteous that boys like themselves must be torn and killed for—what? So, they want to do what they can for the young men of their own generation, to give them a chance for life again.”
“They’ll be killed,” said Charles, from behind his hands.
“No,” said the minister, and his voice broke. “No. We mustn’t think that, Charles. We mustn’t let the boys see that we could ever think it. I suppose it would break their hearts, knowing we were suffering, too. In the meantime, Charles, let us make their few days with us very happy ones. We must keep telling them how proud we are.”
Charles dropped his hands. He said: “I’m not proud. I’m scared to death. I’ll read the papers, and then—how can I pretend to be proud, when I know what this war’s about? When the very worst thing I’ve feared has happened to me? I should have known. It came out of nowhere—but Phyllis told me she believes that they’ve had it in mind, or something like this for a long time—I think they have—the deceit, the hiding, the not telling me—I—”
“Charles,” said the minister, “do you realize that you’ve said, all the time: ‘I,’ ‘me’? You’ve not been thinking of Jim very much, except in relation to yourself. That’s wrong. It’s even cruel.” He waited for Charles to speak, and then when Charles remained silent, the minister said, with simplicity: “I’m scared to death, too, Charles. But I’m thinking of Walter, also.”
Confused thoughts ran through Charles’ mind: The minister had only one son. The minister loved his son. The minister was a brave man, and a good one. He wasn’t burdening his son with his grief and fear. His very love would be used to make Walter stronger. The boy would do his duty in the knowledge that his father had pride in him.
Mr. Haas said: “And time passes so fast, Charles, as you know. In six weeks you and Phyllis will be married in my church. You’ll have a wife again. Before you know it, before you’ve both settled down, Jim will be back. In the meantime, help him. God give you the strength to help him.”
Jim, standing despondently at his window, saw the minister go. He did not hear Charles climbing wearily up the stairs. His door opened, and Charles said: “Son.” Jim whirled about. Charles tried to smile, he tried to speak. He held out one of his hands. Then in a moment father and son were in each other’s arms, and Jim was saying: “Dad. Dad.” And he was crying as he had cried, sometimes, when he was nine, and not nineteen, and then Charles was saying: “Here, stop that. If that’s the way you’re going to act, then I’ll write the Red Cross today and tell them that you haven’t grown up yet, and they can’t have you!”
Charles took the next few days off, and he and Jim went fishing and boating, and he had a dinner for his son, and he smiled and smiled. He did not walk at night, for Jim must not hear him; he kept his terror to himself, and when Jim’s anxious eyes met his, he would grimace paternally. They never spoke of the war, even when they were alone. They talked of Geraldine, and Harvard, and how Jim, next summer, would have a tutor at home, or perhaps remain for the summer session, to catch up, and how much money he would need while away. They parted at night, sunburned and smiling, and with loud words of raillery. And Charles would swallow two, and sometimes three, of the tablets Dr. Metzger had given him, and then he would doze and have nightmares and wake up in a cold sweat. The nights were the worst; but they were just the beginning of the nights of anguish. Charles knew this. Jim must not suspect that his father had this knowledge. They talked only of the coming wedding, and Jim bought a gift for Phyllis and his father, to be opened only on the wedding day.
The days went fast. It was impossible for any days to go so fast. Jim seemed to be uneasy, and Charles guessed the reason. The day before the last, he said: “Jim, why don’t you take the automobile and get Gerry out of her house in some way, and go for a ride? Take the whole day off. Go out into the country, somewhere, and be alone for a while.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” asked Jim with joy, but looking at his father searchingly.
“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I did,” said Charles. “The poor girl’s probably eaten up with anxiety now, especially since Grimsley published that fine article about you and Walter. Now, get in touch with her, in whatever code you two use.”
So Jim took the automobile, and Charles went to the office. Friederich was so relieved to see him that tears came into his eyes behind his glasses. Charles said: “It’s all right, Fred.” He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and added: “Fred, I’m glad we’re together, for a dozen very important reasons, but I think this is the most important. I’m going to need you.”
“A nice boy, a good boy, that one of yours, Karl,” said Friederich, much moved. “A boy to be proud of—yes. I hope I shall have such a boy. And in the meantime, Karl, we must work and do all we can so that there shall never be another war. And so my boy won’t be taken. I’m not so strong as you, Karl. I could not say to my boy, as you have said to yours: ‘I am proud of you. Go in peace, and forget me.’”
“I’ve said it, yes,” answered Charles, wryly. “But, so help me God, I haven’t meant it!”
The worst day of all was the day of departure, when the minister and Charles and the two young men went to the station together. Father Hagerty was there, again, and he gave a medal to each of the boys, and told them that he was praying for
their quick return. The train was a little late, and this was the hardest thing to bear for the fathers, for this last hour with their sons had been almost unendurable.
Then the train came, and the boys went into their coach. The window was open, and they stood there, smiling down at their fathers, smiling at the priest, and pushing each other like children. The wide sedate face of young Walter was pale, and Jim kept coughing, and Charles and the minister laughed at them. The train began to move. Charles and the minister walked beside it, waving. Then Jim, very white, put his face out through the window again, and called: “Dad! Dad! I’ll be home soon! And Dad, take care of Gerry for me—she’ll tell you—” The train roared, went faster and faster, and then it was gone. The two fathers looked after it for a long time, then turned away and could not look at each other.
They took Father Hagerty home in the big red automobile, in silence. When they had reached the priest’s house, Father Hagerty said: “I’ll remember the boys in my prayers, Mr. Haas.”
“Do, please,” said the minister, humbly. “I’ve tried to pray, but somehow, it’s impossible. A terrible thing, but I couldn’t really pray, these last days.”
Charles thought: A million, a hundred million, prayers, haven’t stopped this war. There is nothing prayer can do, nothing. I don’t suppose even God could do anything, either. He said: “Thank you, Father Hagerty. And don’t forget the minister and me, too.”
Charles went back to his office, as usual, the next day. Then began for him that agonized waiting so familiar to so many fathers now, in Europe, in Canada, in dozens of raging countries, all over the world. Charles wondered if that agony of parents could not be diverted in some way to blast apart the bodies and the souls, if any, of the warmakers, the statesmen, the brass-plated generals and officers, the men in Switzerland who laughed.
He told himself, during the weeks that followed, that all would be well with Jim. He dared not think of any other possibility. No one fired on the Red Cross! But that was not true, now. He knew it, in spite of the fact that he read that the hospital ships sailed fully lighted and unharmed on the oceans, and were respected. But what of the battlefields, the shells, the guns, the fire, the flame? Charles forced himself to work, to go about his business. He tried to pray. He attended parties given for him and Phyllis, and daily he grew gaunter, and his eyes became more sunken. He sat with Phyllis in her house, and she and Mrs. Holt visited him together, this first week in August before the wedding, and the two women often were unreal to Charles, like painted figures, flat and voiceless, and there was such a numbness in him that he sometimes wondered if he were paralyzed, and would cautiously lift his arm or open and shut his hands, to test them.
The nights were not so terrible, in spite of what he had feared. Perhaps the sedatives, stronger now, which the doctor had given him, were blurring the outlines of his thoughts and his dreams or perhaps he had reached the state where his exhausted mind could not feel too acutely.
He had one letter from Jim, in Canada, and one only. It was a cheerful letter. Cautiously, it implied that Jim would soon be on his way. There was a postscript: “And when you see Gerry, she’ll tell you all about it. I wanted to tell you before, as a surprise, but she wanted to do it, herself. Take care of yourself, Dad. You know what I think of you. The best Dad in the world.” Charles, eagerly reading the letter, trying to discover something which would tell him when Jim would be leaving, hoping to find in it the full strength of his son’s love for him, did not suspect for a moment that the letter was a little cryptic.
Phyllis saw him almost every day, and called him at least twice. Slowly, he began to find his deepest comfort in her. He began to talk again, more easily. They walked at night over the mountain paths. Her presence was healing to him. He sometimes said: “It won’t be so bad when you’re with me, Phyllis. It won’t be so hard, waiting, and watching for letters. Another five days! I’m glad we’ve put off the honeymoon until Jim comes home. I couldn’t go away, wondering if a letter had arrived for me. It was thoughtful of you, to suggest waiting for the honeymoon.”
Another five days, thought Phyllis. Her house no longer belonged to her; soon, the furniture would be gone, also, except what she had saved. She walked through the beautiful rooms, and saw her reflection in the long mirrors, and she knew it was the reflection of a stranger who had no right in this house any longer. The stranger lived in that other house with Charles, slept in that old-fashioned bed, ate her breakfasts and her dinners with Charles.
She would think this, and wish the five days were over, and she were Charles’ wife. Phyllis’ impatience grew. Now the house which had been hers and Wilhelm’s took on a waiting quality, not happy and tranquil, but uneasy and ominous.
CHAPTER LX
The wedding was to be a very quiet one, and only a few invitations had been issued for the reception in the Holts’ mansion. But many presents had been sent, even from those who had been invited only to the church ceremony. Charles was touched by this, for some of the best gifts were from those who had stared at him coldly during the past year, or had avoided him. Phyllis had laid out all the presents in the Holts’ second “drawing-room,” and Charles would examine them, marvelling. “I can’t get over old Heinz sending us a dozen hand-chased silver demi-tasse cups!” he would say. “Must have cost the old miser a fortune.”
It was hard to leave Phyllis at night, and go home to that empty house. He often stayed very late with her, and no one gossiped. The people in Andersburg talked of him with sympathy, and they sincerely wished him happiness. Most of them could imagine, with dread, what it must mean to this father not to know where his son was, or what his son was doing. They would look at their own sons, and say passionately to each other: “No war for us! They’ll never get us into their damned war!”
Jochen and Isabel talked of Charles often and soberly. Once Isabel said: “That boy! To do this to his father! I can’t like Charles, ever, Jochen, but I pray for him. I really do. That awful boy!”
To which Jochen replied: “Isabel, he isn’t ‘awful.’ He’s a nice kid. Glad, though, we haven’t boys of our own.” He often thought regretfully of Jim. Once he had wanted him for a son-in-law. If only Brinkwells had never appeared in Andersburg! Everything had gone wrong, with their coming. Geraldine and Jimmy might be engaged now, and planning on an early marriage. If that had happened, the boy would not now be somewhere in that accursed Europe; he would never have left Geraldine. And he, Jochen, would still be vice-president of the Wittmann Machine Tool Company, complaining, not content, but at least safe and important.
It was very strange that Geraldine, though relieved as she was of any plans for a marriage to Kenneth Brinkwell, should seem to grow whiter daily, and more silent. Jochen told himself that it was all his imagination. He hoped it was, for he had little time to think of anything these days except the fact that he had not found anything, anywhere, which attracted him. Once he was sure that his search was over, in Cincinnati. Once he even came to the point of discussing financial matters and even arrangements with the owners of a good small machine tool company. Then mysteriously, a few days later, he received an apologetic telegram announcing that the owners had, for some inexplicable reason or other, changed their minds. Jochen was extremely disappointed. But he went on searching. After one or more such odd last-minute rejections of his terms and his suggestions, he became panic-stricken. He never once suspected that Roger Brinkwell had something to do with this, so he continued to confide in his friend and employer, who listened sympathetically and suggested another concern, or concerns, and expressed himself as annoyed or baffled when the inevitable refusal arrived.
“They don’t know a good man and a sound offer when they see them,” Mr. Brinkwell would say, frowning. “But, let’s consider the Goodwin Company, Joe. I’ll write them myself for you, if you want me to. Why don’t you go about it this way—?”
August eighth, and still no connection. Jochen’s panic grew. When Mr. Brinkwell offered to extend the dat
e of Jochen’s resignation Jochen did not refuse. Isabel, however, and much to Jochen’s surprise, opposed this.
“No,” she said, “it must definitely be September first. You can give all your time to it then, Jochen. You can push it through, personally, waiting in those cities until they make up their minds, or forcing them to make up their minds at once.”
No, it was no time to think much of one’s daughter’s imagined pallor and listlessness, especially when one was trying to find some secure future for that daughter. Besides, Jochen would think gratefully, a man’s first duty was towards his wife, especially a wife who knew the worst about a man and who still loved and admired him, and was ready to accept anything for his sake.
Two days before the wedding, Charles received a letter on the Canadian Red Cross stationery from Jim. It was from London, and it was dated the early part of July. It was the most satisfactory present Charles could have received, and he read it eagerly. All was well with Jim and Walter. They did not know when they would be sent to “Somewhere in France.” They only hoped it would be soon.
“Dad,” Jim wrote, “if you could see the poor fellows here in the hospitals! It would almost kill you. I only know it’s convinced Walter and me more than ever that we were right to come. Lots of these kids wouldn’t be dying now, in the hospitals, if they had been picked up earlier. They wouldn’t have developed gangrene and septicemia. Everyone’s talking of the end of the war, confidently, and it can’t end too quickly for me.”
London, in wartime, was more than a little exciting. He had seen the Zeppelins a few times, “big, bloated balloons, like silver sausages,” floating in the twilight skies over the city, and dropping down their cargo of fire and death. The Germans called it “strafing” London; the bombs did not cause too much damage, according to Jim. He liked London. “But it’s worse than home, on Sundays. Everyone dies. You hardly see anyone on the streets. There’s a joke here, about where the people go on Sundays, but I wouldn’t soil the eyes of the censor by telling you the joke in a letter.”