A taxi took, them to Grand Central Station—no use trying to use your own car in that theater jam. Lanny saw her on board her train; a friendly handshake and assurances that they had both had a delightful day—and then he strolled out, thinking how it would be as husband of Peggy Remsen. Where and how would they live? And what would she make of his long journeys on art missions? And would he entrust her with his political secret? And what would she make of his Pink opinions?
X
On his way to the street was a newsstand loaded with every sort of reading matter that might tempt the public. So many new magazines that one couldn’t remember the names. The June issues, just out, new and neat, multicolored traps for the modern eye. Lanny stopped and glanced over the contents tables. There was a Bluebook, and he thought of Mary Morrow. Sure enough, there she was, the leading story, a title half English, half German: “The Herrenvolk.” He purchased a copy and carried it to his hotel room; before undressing he sat in an easy chair and read it through.
Another of those biting satires on the Nazis at home. Again the scene was a pension in a provincial town. This time the narrative centered about a peasant girl, the slavey of the establishment; her name was Greta, and Lanny could guess that she might be that kind-hearted girl who had risked her life by stealing out of the Pension Baumgartner and letting Laurel Creston know that the Gestapo were raiding her room and examining the contents of her Schreibtisch and her Gepäck. But Greta was merely a glass through which we could look into the souls of half a dozen greedy and jealous members of the master race who drove this poor creature about. They were hateful and they were cruel, and each and every one was imbued with the conviction that he or she was the most perfect product yet thrown off by a blindly functioning universe composed of material atoms in perpetual inevitable activity. (There was a professor who explained this while he grabbed the last slice of Leberwurst off a platter.)
So Lanny stopped thinking about a prospective museum curator and thought instead about a present fiction writer. Here was the woman who was intellectually his mate, and whom he ought to be thinking about marrying if he was going to marry at all! This woman had the real stuff in her, and she was doing her work in her own way, not asking anybody to teach her or to help her. She hadn’t waited for Lanny to reveal to her the fact that the world was out of joint, that it was full of parasites and exploiters, and that some of them had organized a criminal conspiracy against the modern world. This was the woman who deserved the prize—if Lanny was going to distribute prizes—or to be one!
So there started the old arguments all over again. If he should ask Laurel Creston to marry him and she consented, where would they live, and how? Where was the place in which Lanny could visit her with the certainty that nobody would recognize him? Where could she live and have any friends who wouldn’t be curious about a fashionable gentleman who might or might not be her husband? Here in this vast megalopolis was the best of all places to get lost in. But where would she get her mail and how would she cash her magazine checks? Was it conceivable that the Nazi agents who swarmed all over this city would permit a story like “The Herrenvolk” to appear in a popular magazine and not set out to locate the writer and find out where she got her material? Wouldn’t they find a way to get her address from the magazine and wouldn’t they trail her wherever she went? Of course they would; and of course they would find out who her lover was; and if he turned out to be an intimate friend of Nummer Eins, Zwei, und Drei—well, the things that had happened to that man in the back country of Toulon would be child’s play compared to what would happen to him the next time he set foot across the borders of Germany.
But even so, before the P.A. went to sleep that night he decided that, since he had spared a full day for Lizbeth Holdenhurst and one for Peggy Remsen, common decency required that he should spare one for Laurel Creston!
XI
Next morning he called her on the telephone. “No names,” he said, knowing that she would recognize his voice. “Am I interrupting a writing job?”
“Nothing urgent,” she replied.
“Come out and stroll on the avenue—on the same side as your apartment house, going north. Say in an hour.” He knew that ladies have to dress.
He did not take his father’s car, but a taxi—and not from in front of his hotel. He told the driver where to go, and not too fast. “I am looking for a lady—rather small size.” All taxi drivers understand these matters and take an interest in them.
“There she is!” Lanny said. The cab stopped, and she stepped in without a word. “Drive around the block,” he said, and made sure that nobody was following them. Then he ordered: “Take us into Central Park.” When they were just inside he paid off the driver.
“Forgive this Sherlock Holmes business,” he said when they were alone. “I got into serious trouble through being spied upon in France, and there are special reasons why I have to be careful in New York.”
“I understand,” she said, for she had guessed a lot about him. “I surely do not want to be to blame for anything going wrong.”
“I read ‘The Herrenvolk’ last night, and I know that you must be a marked woman. That’s why I had to make sure that neither of us was being followed. I have my father’s car, and would like to take you for a good long drive, but I was afraid somebody might make note of the license number. If now you don’t mind sitting on a bench for a while, I’ll bring the car here.”
“We had pleasant times sitting on benches in the Tiergarten,” she reminded him. “All these subterfuges and stratagems will serve me some day when I want to tell a spy story.”
In half an hour Lanny was back with the car. “Where would you like to go?”—and when she replied that she had no choice, he said: “We’ll go north and see what we see.” They followed the east bank of the Hudson, and when they came to the village of Croton they struck into the hills. There was a great curved dam, part of the city’s water system; the road wound past the reservoir and on into the hills. Nature was at her loveliest, and they admired the scenery now and then, talking between times about the world at war.
Lanny told her that he had been back in Hitlerland, and had met the Führer and his Deputy. Laurel was relieved, having feared that her own misadventure in Berchtesgaden might interfere with his work; but he told her no, he had visited Hitler’s office and Hess’s home, and they had not mentioned her. He gave his interpretation of the flight, the world’s number-one mystery, but not saying that he had known about it in advance. He told of the coming attack upon Russia, and they discussed for a while what that was going to mean to Russia, to Britain, and to America.
Then their personal affairs. He reported on Beauty, and Baby Marcel, and Emily and Sophie and the rest of the gang. And then Green Spring Valley, and how Lizbeth and her mother and father were. Laurel said: “They have invited me there for a couple of weeks this summer, but I’m not sure if I’ll take the time off.”
“It gets pretty hot in New York in midsummer,” he commented.
“I stay in my little apartment under an electric fan. I am doing some writing that I hate to interrupt. Did you say anything about me to them?”
“No, I thought they might consider it strange that I hadn’t mentioned you before.”
“It is just as well. They would surely not approve of my getting into trouble in Germany, and probably not of what I am writing. If we ever happen to meet in their presence, let them introduce us and we’ll start all over.”
“Very well,” he replied. “I shall be pleased to meet you.”
That bit of gallantry sufficed to pass off a delicate subject. It would have been easy for her to make some remark: “Lizbeth is a very lovely girl, don’t you think?” or even: “Has Lizbeth found herself a beau yet?” But no, she accepted his casual remark that her Uncle Reverdy was putting a lot of money into Budd-Erling, and left it to be supposed that that was sufficient reason for Lanny’s visits. She carried reticence to an extreme, but he had to admit that he found it c
onvenient.
XII
They had a large subject of conversation in her writings. He did not have to be reticent in regard to the “The Herrenvolk,” nor would she wish him to be. She told about other sketches she had written or had in mind. Knowing the Nazis as he did, he could suggest details, and was pleased to do so; she asked if she might make notes, and he said: “I shall be proud.” She told him that her subject had become popular, and the editors were eagerly buying what she wrote. “The bombs over London have waked them up,” he commented.
A still more important revelation: she was trying to get up the courage to spread her wings; she aspired not merely to sketch individual Nazis but to write a novel with a conflict of characters embodying the old and the new Germany. What did he think of the idea? Of course he thought well of it, and she invited him into the machine-shop of a fictionist’s mind. He had had the same adventure years ago, when Rick had been a budding playwright; he helped her, as he had helped Rick, by suggesting types and traits. They became excited, and forgot about the landscape, and got lost on country roads, but it didn’t matter, for they had no special goal. He was heading toward the east because the Berkshires lay that way, and he knew they were lovely.
They found a roadside inn and had an acceptable lunch; nobody knew them, nobody was concerned about their affairs. How pleasant if life had been all literature; if you could fight your enemies with a pen, and annihilate them with a witty sequence of dialogue! But the enemies wouldn’t be satisfied with what William Blake called “mental fight”; they were dropping bombs over London, and Der Dicke had made a grinning remark to Lanny: “Tell your friends in New York we’re going to have a way to reach them before long.”
“What could he mean?” asked the woman. “Just a bluff?”
“It isn’t safe to be sure that anything the Germans say is bluff. I know they are working at what is called jet propulsion, that is to say, rockets. That device is just in its infancy, and when it grows up, three thousand miles may be as one.”
“But could they aim anything at that distance?”
“Who can guess what modern science may do? They might have some sort of telephoto device, and when the picture of a city comes onto the screen the bomb would be released automatically.”
“Are we all going to have to live underground like the gophers?” she asked, and he answered: “Either that, or else we have to abolish competitive commercialism, and build a world on a basis of cooperation.”
“Don’t let my Uncle Reverdy hear you say that,” she warned. “What he calls private enterprise is the only god he has.”
“All right,” countered Lanny with a grin. “His private enterprise shall be to put Green Spring Valley underground. The new bombs will be no respecters of class.”
XIII
Another subject of conversation they would never neglect. Laurel had discovered that she was a medium, and that was the strangest thing in the world to her, and a matter for investigation in her spare time. She had a woman friend, somewhat older than herself, whom she had met in a boardinghouse where she had stayed when she had come to the city in search of a career. This friend came to see her now and then in the evenings, and Laurel went into a trance, and the friend made notes of what happened. How the P.A. would have liked to be there!
The one-time international banker, Otto Kahn, had become Laurel’s “steady company” in the spirit world—or the world of the subconscious mind, or whatever you chose to call it. She had never heard his spirit voice, but her friend Agnes had listened to it for long periods and made elaborate notes of what he had said. He presided over the séances with the same easy grace that he had been wont to display at social functions in New York not long before. He had a keen sense of humor, and was immensely amused by the idea of being in the spirit world; of course it couldn’t possibly be true—every enlightened person knew it was nonsense—but here he was, and what were they going to make of him? He didn’t know how he had come to be here, just as he hadn’t known how he had come to be on earth. His body, of course, had been born; but where had his mind come from? And where had it gone to? No place he could describe to anybody; but since he was here, they might as well enjoy the fun.
He knew a lot about what was going on in the world. How would an alert mind like his consent to be left in darkness? He made fun of the banking business, as he had done in real life, even while making millions out of it. He admitted that the game was about played out; he compared it whimsically to “freeze-out” poker; the game went on until one player had got all the chips, and that was the end. He laughed at the idea that the war debts would ever be paid. What with? Even the interest, paid in goods, would wreck the home industry of the country which received them.
Agnes had rebuked him: “You talk like a Red”; and he had answered: “I always enjoy their company.” Even so, Lanny found it suspicious, for he had the idea that something deep in Laurel Creston’s subconscious mind was inventing Otto Hermann Kahn out of a girlhood memory, plus some of Lanny Budd’s own ideas. If her conscious mind was impelled to create Gauleiters and their cousins, why might not that same activity be going on in her “memory mind”?
But then, there was the problem of the facts which this spirit mentioned—facts that Laurel was ready to swear she had never heard and couldn’t have heard. This “control” informed her with mock solemnity that he was to be treated with respect, for he had been and still was a Commander of the Legion of Honor of France, a Knight of the Order of Charles II of Spain, a Grand Officer of the Order of the Crown of Italy, a Commander of the Order of the Crown of Belgium, and an Officer of the Order of SS. Maurizio e Lazzaro of Italy. “And believe me,” he declared, addressing the unknown Agnes Drury, “those things cost more money than you will ever see in all your life.”
How had the subconscious mind of Laurel Creston found out all that? Assuredly her conscious mind had never heard of any except the first of these ancient and honorable institutions. Was it likely that the dignified Jewish banker had ever recited the list in the presence of a young niece of one of his clients? Here was one of the most fascinating of life’s mysteries, and the two friends talked about it for a long while, exchanging experiences and theories.
With such conversation, and the viewing of a panorama of western Massachusetts, the afternoon slipped away pleasantly; they had dinner at a roadhouse, and got back to the city late at night. After Lanny had left her, as usual, near her apartment house, he drove away, reflecting: “If I should marry her I should have not merely a wife but also a first-class medium.” It would be almost bigamy!
17
The Darkest Hour
I
On the North Shore of the Sound, half way between Newcastle and New York, the Hansi Robins had their modest home. The flowers were blooming in their garden, and tiny little sparkles were dancing over the blue water. They had two lovely children, one of them dark like the father, the other blond like the mother. They had just come back from a concert tour of the Middle West, where large audiences had applauded them. They had all the money they wanted, and more to give away. They were young—Hansi only thirty-six and Bess thirty-three. They had health, and a great art which they practiced with religious devotion. Everybody thought they were a happy couple, if such existed in the world; but apparently it didn’t, for they were a tormented couple.
Lanny went to spend the day with them; they loved him, and made a holiday of his coming. He told about his travels, and a good part of what he had learned. They asked questions about Bienvenu and Wickthorpe, and about the friends they had in common. They asked about the wicked Nazis and the cowardly French collaborators, but they made few comments; they sat tight-lipped and tense, knowing that if they expressed opinions they might get into an argument, and an argument would turn into a quarrel. They lived together under the terms that never, no matter what the circumstances, did they discuss the subjects which were of the greatest interest and importance to them both. They read newspapers and magazines, but rar
ely spoke of what they read. If one came upon something in the way of news or opinion which seemed to him of significance, he dared not even call the other’s attention to it, for that might be taken as a challenge to the other’s opinion, and so might lead to controversy. Just wall yourself and your ideas off and live with them alone; when you were with friends, let the friends do the talking!
The only thing that was really safe was music. The notes were there and offered no chance of disagreement. What would Lanny like to hear? He asked what they were playing, and Hansi said they had been featuring Saint-Saëns, especially the Rondo Capriccioso. Lanny said he hadn’t heard it for a long time; so they played it, and those wild skipping notes which make a test of violin technique expressed all the joy which the Hansibesses had ever felt or imagined in youth and nature and love. But in the midst of the piece would come little hints of melancholy, and Hansi’s fiddle would wail, saying plainly to his brother-in-law’s ears: “Oh, why, why cannot human beings understand one another, and be tolerant and kind?”
II
There was nothing unique about this family situation; on the contrary, it was typical of what was going on in many homes, and in journals of opinion in every country where free expression was permitted. It was a split which ran right down the center of the leftwing movement, and which, in Lanny’s opinion, was responsible for the triumph of Nazi-Fascism. It was a difference of human types, set forth by the psychologist William James long before this split had occurred. There are tough-minded people and there are tender-minded people, and they do not agree about what is to be done in the world.