He said, “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing.” The girl drank off half her drink, all at once. “It certainly helps to know a man who knows a man, doesn’t it? Well! If I’m to hang around Washington till the end of the week, we’ll have to get me a hotel room, Leslie. I’m certainly not going to stay here after tonight. I feel damned odd even about that. Maybe I can still try a few of the hotels.”
“Go ahead. I was on the phone for an hour. Washington in May is impossible. There are four conventions in town.”
“If Byron finds out, God help me.”
“Won’t he believe that I slept on the couch?”
“He’ll have to, if he finds out. Leslie, will you get me permission to go to Italy?”
He compressed his mouth and shook his head. “I told you, the Department’s advising Americans to leave Italy.”
“If I don’t go, Aaron won’t come home.”
“Why? A broken ankle isn’t disabling.”
“He just will never pull himself together and leave. You know that. He’ll dawdle and potter and hope for the best.”
Slote said with a shrug, “I don’t think you want to go there to help Aaron. Not really. You’re just running away, Natalie. Running away, because you’re in way over your head with your submarine boy, and shattered by losing your father, and actually don’t know what on earth to do next with yourself.”
“Aren’t you clever!” Natalie clinked the half-full glass down on the table. “I leave in the morning, Slote, if I have to stay at the YWCA. But I’ll make your breakfast first. Do you still eat your eggs turned over and fried to leather?”
“I’ve changed very little, altogether, darling.”
“Good-night.” She closed the bedroom door hard.
Half an hour later Slote, dressed in pajamas and a robe, tapped at the door.
“Yes?” Natalie’s voice was not unfriendly.
“Open up.”
Her faintly smiling face was pink and oily, and over a nightgown she had bought that afternoon she wore a floppy blue robe of his. “Hi. Something on your mind?”
“Care for a nightcap?”
She hesitated. “Oh, why not? I’m wide awake.”
Humming happily, Leslie Slote went to the kitchen and emerged almost immediately with two very dark highballs. Natalie sat on the couch, arms folded, face shiny in the lamplight.
“Thanks. Sit down, Leslie. Stop pacing. That was a mean crack about Byron.”
“Wasn’t it the truth, Natalie?”
“All right. If we’re playing the truth game, isn’t it simpler today than it was a year ago for a Foreign Service officer to have a Jewish wife, since the Nazis are now beyond the pale?”
Slote’s cheery look faded abruptly. “That never once occurred to me.”
“It didn’t have to occur to you. Now listen, dear. You can feed me stiff highballs, and play ‘This Can’t Be Love’ on the phonograph, and all that, but do you really want me to invite you into the bedroom? Honestly, it would be a sluttish thing to do. I don’t feel like it. I’m in love with somebody else.”
He sighed and shook his head. “You’re too damned explicit, Natalie. You always have been. It’s coarse, in a girl.”
“You said that the first time I proposed, sweetie.” Natalie stood, sipping her highball. “My goodness, what a rich drink. I do believe you’re nothing but a wolf.” She was scanning the books. “What can I read? Ah, Graham Wallas. The very man. I’ll be asleep in half an hour.”
He stood and took her by the shoulders. “I love you, I’ll love you forever, and I’ll try every way I can to get you back.”
“Fair enough. Leslie, I must go to Italy to get Aaron out. Honestly! I feel horrible about my father. He was worrying over Aaron the very day he died. Maybe this is irrational expiation, but I’ve got to bring Aaron home safe.”
“I’ll arrange it, if it’s arrangeable.”
“Now you’re talking. Thanks. Good-night.” She kissed him lightly, went to the bedroom, and closed the door. He did not rap again, though he read for a long time and had more drinks.
28
THE Vice Chief of Naval Operations for Air was drinking coffee with a blond man in a blue Royal Air Force uniform. It was Lord Burne-Wilke; he nodded at Victor Henry, with a faint smile. During their long convivial dinner with the Tudsburys, Burne-Wilke had said not a word to Pug about this meeting.
“Good morning, Henry. I understand you know the Air Commodore.” The admiral worked his eyebrows at Pug.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Have a cup of coffee.” The wiry old man bounced away from his desk to a map of the United States on the wall. “And let’s get at it. Here, here, and here”—his bony finger jumped to Pensacola, St. Louis, and Chicago—“we’ve got fifty-three old-type scout bombers, SBU-i’s and 2’s, that have been declared surplus. We want to get them back to Chance-Vought, in Stratford, Connecticut—that’s the manufacturer—and get all U.S. Navy markings and special equipment removed. Our British friends will then pick ‘em up as is, and fly ‘em to a carrier that’s standing by in Halifax. That’s the picture. For obvious reasons”—the admiral contracted his brows fiercely at Pug—“involving the Neutrality Act, this is a touchy business. So the idea is to get this done without leaving a conspicuous trail of blood, guts, and feathers. You can have a plane to take you around and you should get at it today.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“We have sixty pilots on hand and waiting,” said Lord Burne-Wilke. “How soon d’you suppose you could have the planes, Captain Henry?”
Victor Henry studied the map, then turned to the Englishman, “Day after tomorrow, sir, late afternoon? Would that be convenient? It’ll take some time to get off those markings.”
The Englishman gave him a stare, and then smiled at the Vice Chief of Naval Operations. The admiral remained impassive. “Day after tomorrow?” said Lord Burne-Wilke.
“Yes, sir. The stragglers, if any, could come along on the deck of the next available cargo ship.”
“Actually, we were thinking in terms of a week from now,” said Lord Burne-Wilke. “We’ve given some of the fliers leave. It would require a bit of rounding up. How about Wednesday morning? That gives you and us four days.”
“Very well, sir.”
Burne-Wilke said to the admiral, “You do think that’s feasible?”
“He says so.”
“Well, then, I had better get right at this.”
As the door closed, the admiral glared at Victor Henry, with a tinge of humor showing. “Day after tomorrow, hey?”
“Admiral, I didn’t think those pilots were really on hand and waiting.”
The two men exchanged a look of insiders’ amusement. The foreigner had demanded fast action; the U.S. Navy had offered him faster action than he could handle; very satisfying, and needing no words. “Well, Wednesday’s cutting it close enough. Let’s have some fresh coffee, hey? Now, this whole thing is a subterfuge.” The admiral pressed a buzzer. “I suppose you grasp that. The boss man wants it, so that’s that. There are a few things you’d better understand, however.”
Showing a new grudging cordiality toward Victor Henry, the admiral explained that the President had elicited from the Attorney General—“probably by twisting his arm pretty damn hard”—the scheme and the ruling for selling these planes to England despite the Neutrality Act. First, the Navy was declaring the aircraft surplus. Second, Chance-Vought was accepting them for a trade-in on new F-4-U’s, at a good high price. Chance-Vought could afford to do this, because it was turning around and selling the old planes to England at a profit. The catch was that the delivery of the F-4-U’s lay far in the future. Undoubtedly President Roosevelt was evading the spirit of the Neutrality Law and the will of Congress, by allowing these planes out of the country now. The Army in particular would raise a howl. It was very short of aircraft, and had a standing request in to the Navy for surplus flying machines of any description.
?
??Now, Henry, there’s no question here, and no hope, of concealment in the long run. But if it were announced in advance, there’d be a big storm on the front pages. It might not go through, which would be too bad. Any Germans that the Limeys knock down with those old SBU’s we won’t have to fight later. We’re not going to stay out of this brawl. The boss man’s idea is to get it done and then take what comes. The way the war news is breaking, it may not cause a whisper, after the fact. I hope not. However”—the admiral paused, squinting at Victor Henry over the rim of his coffee cup—“this does involve a chance of congressional investigation. Somebody like you could end up a goat. The President thought you could get the job done, and I concurred, but this is a volunteer job. Strictly volunteer.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Pug. “I’d better get at it.”
Briny, my love—
Brace yourself. When you receive this letter I ought to be in Lisbon. I’m flying to Italy to fetch Uncle Aaron out of there. With luck I’ll be back in two months or less. It depends on the earliest boat passage I can get for us, and for that damned library and all those research files.
Sweetheart, don’t be angry. It’s good for both of us to catch our breaths. Your submarine school, and even Uncle Aaron’s mess, are providential. Your father’s visit to Miami was an alarm clock, and it rang just in time.
My ideas have altered, I must say, since my Radcliffe days when I started the Student Antiwar Committee! I never realized there were people like you, Warren, and your father. I’m sure the stereotyped military men do exist in droves, the hard-drinking narrow bigoted nincompoops. I’ve met a few of those. The new thing is the Henrys. You’re peculiarly unobtrusive on the American scene, I don’t know just why, but thank God you’re there!
Darling—weren’t you having sober second thoughts about me at Warren’s wedding? Honestly, I saw your mother’s viewpoint and quite sympathized with her. Why on earth should her little boy Briny want to marry this dusky old Jewess, with Rhine maidens like Janice Lacouture so abundant in the United States?
Now, mind you, I have not the slightest sense of inferiority. I value my intelligence and I know I’m a passably attractive Dark Lady. Being a Jew is an accident to me. It’s left little trace on my ideas or my conduct. Too little, I guess; we live in a secular age, and I’m a product of it. The question remains, should you and I try to bridge a big gap of background and interests because of a random encounter and a fantastic physical pull?
I’m not backing out, Byron, I love you. But a couple of months to think it over is no hardship, it’s a godsend.
Now let me quickly tell you what’s been happening. I enclose the letter Aaron sent me that you didn’t want to look at. You can ignore his silly words about us. The whole picture of his problem is very clear in it.
Leslie Slote has been absolutely marvellous. You mustn’t be jealous of him, Briny. The way you behaved when I left Pensacola was very upsetting to me. I’ve rejected repeated, almost grovelling marriage proposals from this man. I’ve told him that I love you, that I’ve promised to marry you, and that he is out. He knows it. Still he dropped everything to work on Aaron’s stupid mess. Never forget that. Word has gone out to Rome from the Secretary’s office to expedite Aaron’s return!
It’s less than two hours to plane time. I’m dashing this off in the airport. I didn’t go home. I stopped in New York for a day and bought enough things to see me through the trip. I’m travelling very light—one suitcase! You’ll be admitted to that submarine school, I’m positive of that. I know your father wants it desperately, and I think deep down you do too. It’s the right thing for you now. When I come back, if you still want me, I’m yours. Plain enough?
So courage, and wish me luck. Here I go.
Love you,
Natalie
Three days before the start of the submarine course, Byron was sitting in a squalid furnished room over a Chinese laundry in New London, looking through the formidable reading list, when the postman rang. Natalie’s large hurried Special Delivery scrawl on the thick envelope promised bad news. Slumped in a ragged armchair amid smells of soap and hot starch from below, Byron read her shocking letter over and over. He was glancing through Aaron’s faintly typed sheets when the telephone jarred him.
“Ensign Henry? Chief Schmidt, commandant’s office. Your father’s here. He’s gone with Captain Tully to inspect the Tambor over at Electric Boat. If you want to join them they’re at Pier Six, the commandant says.”
“Thank you.”
Sore at being followed even here by his father, hot to vent his anger and disappointment, Byron took ten minutes to dress and leave.
Victor Henry, meanwhile, walking through the new submarine with his classmate, was in high good humor, though red-eyed with lack of sleep. The scout bomber job was done. It had taken a lot of work and travel. A dozen aircraft had been in repair shops, the pilots had been scattered over the countryside, and there was no sense of urgency anywhere. Getting all-night work on the disabled planes, dragging those pilots out of their wives’ arms or back from their fishing trips, had been a struggle. Some commandants had asked rough questions. Jiggs Parker at the Great Lakes Air Station, another classmate of his, had put up a fight to get a written record of the transfer, until Pug had told an outright lie about new top-secret equipment to be tested on the planes, which might be expended in the process. Jiggs had eyed him for a long silent minute, and then given in. Well, white lies were part of security, Victor Henry thought, and Jiggs knew that.
Byron caught up with his father and the commandant in the forward torpedo room of the Tambor, inspecting the new firing mechanisms. “Hello, Dad. What brings you here?”
The harsh voice, the look on Byron’s face, told Pug something serious was wrong. “Happened to be not far from here, so I thought I’d mosey over. You met Byron yet, Red?”
“Not yet. I know he passed the physical and he’s in the new class.” Captain Tully offered his hand. “Welcome aboard, Byron. You’re in for a rough couple of months.”
“I’ll try to survive, sir.”
At the almost contemptuous words, Red Tully’s eyes shifted disapprovingly to the father. Byron followed along on the tour without another word, his countenance white and angry.
“Say, what the devil’s the matter with you?” Victor Henry snapped as he and his son came out of the conning tower on the breezy slippery black deck, leaving Captain Tully below talking to the skipper. “You’d do well to watch your tone toward your superiors. You’re in the Navy now.”
“I know I’m in the Navy. Read this.”
Pug saw Natalie’s name on the envelope Byron thrust out. “Isn’t it personal?”
Still Byron offered the letter. Victor Henry held the flapping pages in both hands and read them there on the submarine deck. His face was flushed as he handed them back to his son. “Quite a girl. I’ve said that before.”
“If anything happens to her over there, I’ll hold you responsible, Dad, and I’ll never forget it.”
Pug frowned at his son. “That’s unreasonable. She’s gone to Italy because of her uncle.”
“No. You scared her off by saying I might not get admitted here if I were married. It wasn’t true. A lot of the students are married men. If you hadn’t come to Miami I might be one by now.”
“Well, if I misled her, I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure of the criteria, I thought that for hazardous duty they preferred single men, and for all I know, they do, and simply can’t get enough. Anyway, this is what you should be doing. She’s dead right about that, and I give her credit for realizing it. Possibly I should have butted out, but the decisions you’re making now will shape your whole life, and I wanted to help.”
It was a wordy speech for Victor Henry, and he spoke without his usual firmness, disturbed by his son’s fixed hostile expression. He felt guilty, an unfamiliar sensation: guilty of interfering in his son’s life and possibly of driving off the girl. Even if Natalie had been wrong for Byron, her sudden flight
was a blow that he could feel almost as his son did. Suppose she had been the best thing in the world for the drifting youngster? Suppose, despite all good fatherly intentions, her being Jewish had made a difference?
Byron’s answer was as sharp and short as his father’s had been apologetic and strung-out. “Yes, you helped. She’s gone. I’ll never forget, Dad.”
Red Tully emerged from the conning tower, looked around, and waved. “Hey, Pug? Ready to go ashore?”
Victor Henry said rapidly to his son, “You’re in this now, Briny. It’s the toughest school in the Navy. What’s past is past.”
Byron said, “Let’s get off this thing,” and he walked toward the gangway.
On a hot beautiful evening early in June, when the newspaper headlines were roaring of the British evacuation from Dunkirk, and Churchill on the radio was promising to fight to the end, on the beaches, in the streets, and in the hills, Victor Henry left for Europe. Rhoda stayed behind, because of the worsening of the war, to make a home for Madeline in New York. Pug had suggested this and Rhoda had rather enthusiastically agreed. Madeline, a busy and happy young woman, put up no objection.
Pug found it surprisingly easy to get a plane ticket at that time into the warring continent, as Natalie had. The hard thing was to get out.
29
NATALIE tried for five days to fly from Lisbon to Rome. She finally obtained a plane ticket, but at the last minute it was voided when a large party of boisterously laughing German army officers, obviously full of lunch and wine, streamed through the gate, leaving twenty excluded passengers looking at each other. This soured her on the airlines. Railroad passage across collapsing France was far too risky. She booked passage on a Greek freighter bound for Naples. The wretched voyage took a week. She shared a hot tiny cabin with a horde of black roaches and a withered Greek woman smelling of liniment; and she scarcely left it, horrid as it was, because on deck and in passageways the ship’s officers and rough crewmen gave her disquieting looks. She could scarcely eat the food. The pitching and rolling kept her awake at night. En route, her portable radio squawked the BBC stories of the French government’s flight from Paris, of Italy’s jump into the war, and of Roosevelt’s words, “The hand that held the dagger has struck it into the back of its neighbor.” Natalie arrived in Italy nervous and exhausted, with a strong feeling that she had better get Aaron out of Siena at once, forgetting books, clothes, furniture—everything except the manuscript.