They left the path and its crowded benches, its baby carriages and chess games and roller skates and tricycles, and climbed up through the grass and trees toward a ridge of rocks and scattered bushes. Paul Haydn was warning himself, Don’t be the first to start talking about Orpen. But his impatience grew. He tore the cellophane bag open, and some peanuts scattered on the grass.
“Take it easy,” Brownlee said, “that bag has got to last you for another hour.”
Paul, trying to smile said, “What about this rock? It looks like a good place to sit.”
Brownlee looked round. At some distance boys were playing a game of baseball. A young couple sat under a lime tree in bright green flower. A nurse helped a baby to walk on the grass, watched glumly by a leashed Scotty. The paths behind the fringes of trees seemed far away and they were becoming still more crowded with walkers. The benches were now full. It was Saturday afternoon with the sun making its bow after all, coats were coming off, faces were being turned to the first warm rays. “This will do,” Brownlee said, sitting down. “Find yourself a soft corner. It’s dry, at least.” He looked over again at the boy and girl under the tree. The boy was now stretched on his back, his head in the girl’s lap. “Well, I suppose when you are twenty you can’t get rheumatics,” Brownlee added, opening his bag carefully and holding out a nut to an inquisitive but hesitant squirrel. It advanced and retreated and then advanced some more.
“You asked about Orpen,” Brownlee went on quietly. “I’ve quite a file on that little lad. What do you want to know?”
“Anything you can tell me.”
Brownlee’s story of Nicholas Orpen followed the same pattern as Jon’s account, last night. Only, Brownlee could carry it farther along. When Orpen’s role of martyr flopped so badly, he had kept a tactful silence until Pearl Harbour. But after that, he went into freelance writing. He got published frequently, for he wrote well and Communists were enjoying much reflected glory from the Red Army. His theme was always the same—an impassioned plea for a “second front” at a time when there weren’t enough landing-craft to get adequate supplies or reinforcements across the English Channel. He didn’t sound too repetitive, though, for he took the precaution of using a variety of pen names. Responsible men who knew the capabilities of the Western allies at that time began to wonder if Orpen didn’t want a second front then so that it could fail, and the Red Army would seem all the more glorious by contrast.
“In fact,” Brownlee said with a smile, “some of us used to call him the Voice of Moscow. That’s how important Orpen was. He was confident, too. He even tried for a job in OSS. But he didn’t get it. The next we heard of him was in a good-will project subsidised by a philanthropist who wanted close international co-operation. By the end of the war, Orpen was over in Europe as one of the chief men of that outfit. He was helping quote anti-Fascist refugees unquote. He travelled around, and when he came back here he had a lot of articles all ready to be printed. He wrote well, as I said. He was a most persuasive character. His angle? ‘I was there, I saw it all, I speak for humanity.’ He was published widely. He proved the Communists in Greece were not Communists at all, just Greek agrarian reformers or something. He proved the Poles were all just waiting to welcome the government that had come from Moscow via Lublin; the other Poles, the ones who had fought on all through the Battle of France and the Battle of Britain, were mere fascists. He showed that elections in Rumania and Bulgaria were all free and honest; that business prospects would be far better for the United States once real democracies were set up in Eastern Europe; that the Czechs had never been happier than when the Communists seized power. It was all good spadework. And plenty of people over here believed him, and repeated what he said. Helpful bunch of little sweethearts, they were.”
Brownlee paused and watched the squirrels now surrounding the rock; their small grey bodies erect, their front paws folded across their smooth bellies as if begging for more food and still more.
“After Masaryk’s mysterious death, Orpen’s popularity dropped. In fact, for a few months he was very quiet. Now, he has begun writing again, always under assumed names, but he is leaving foreign politics strangely alone. I don’t like it, Paul, I don’t like it one bit. He is still doing good spadework, but it is against the United States now. And you can see by his past record that he’s an expert tunneller.”
“What’s his line, nowadays?”
“Still the Voice of Moscow. In particular, he has been attacking the corruption of the American Press, the menace of the FBI to our freedom, the hysteria of spy-hunting, the warmongering of our draft laws. In general, if there is anything bad he can magnify, he certainly does. If there is anything good about the United States, he never mentions it. If there are two interpretations to be put on any American problem, only the worse interpretation is made. He says he’s fighting for the oppressed and the exploited; but he never mentions slave labour in Russia. He talks of witch-hunting; but he never mentions purges in Eastern Europe. He talks bitterly of intolerance; but he never mentions the Believe-and-Obey rules of Communism. He speaks of peace most glowingly; but he never mentions that Russia has more soldiers and more equipment than any of the Western countries. Yes, he talks of peace, while he is fighting a war in secret. He and a few hundred men like him.”
Roger Brownlee looked gloomily over the broad stretch of grass falling away to the crowded paths. “He is fighting a war against them, he said, pointing to the people sitting on the crowded benches or strolling slowly in the sunshine. “Comrade Orpen doesn’t trust the way they vote. He has no respect for their opinions. He and some seventy thousand comrades are quite sure that almost a hundred and fifty million people are fools—only the Orpens are right.”
“Yes,” Paul said slowly, “he is pretty contemptuous of the rest of us, isn’t he? If I were to join your counter-attack against Orpen and his friends, that would be a good enough reason.”
Brownlee fed some more squirrels, favouring the smaller or more timid ones that had been forced into the background by the self-assertive. “If?” he asked, at last. Then, “What’s holding you back, Paul?”
“I want to know what I’m getting into, frankly.”
Brownlee looked up at him suddenly, shrewdly. “We aren’t amateur spies, if that’s what you mean. We are only tackling a job that needs doing, a job that no agency in this country can deal with. We are simply a group of volunteers—men and women who make our living by newspapers, magazines, books, radio, movies. All we are doing is to fight ideas with ideas. Counter-propaganda in other words.”
“I don’t want to get into any organisation,” Paul said, “that could lead to thought control. In the end, there wouldn’t be any difference between Orpen and ourselves.”
“I’d agree. But there are a lot of us working together as volunteers. We’re from different parts of the country. Politically, we’re a mixture—Democrats, Republicans, Liberals and Norman Thomas Socialists. As far as religion goes, you’ll find Catholics and Jews and Mormons, Christian Scientists and Protestants like you and me. We’ve some agnostics, too. It would be pretty hard to produce thought control with that variety. The only thing we have in common is a real loyalty to our own country. We happen to like it a good deal.” Roger Brownlee stared at the grey rock beneath his feet. “It seems that quite a number of us have been worrying about Orpen and his friends for the last few years. All we needed was a little organisation—it wasn’t easy for a man worried by suspicions to do very much entirely alone.”
Paul nodded. He said gloomily, “Weidler would agree with you. He told me yesterday, when I went to see him, that he felt he was fighting shadows. It was he, by the way, who first mentioned Orpen’s name to me. Blackworth was seemingly one of Orpen’s prize pupils. He was gradually ousting anti-Communist writers and planting articles by people like Orpen in their place. Did you know about this?”
“We guessed.”
“Weidler is hushing it all up like a fool.”
Brownlee sai
d slowly, “Not so much of a fool.”
“But his silence plays right into their hands.”
“A frank statement of the case would also play right into their hands. Blackworth would sue to the hilt. And he would get away with it—unless his Communist Party card was discovered, which it won’t be. And unless the FBI caught Blackworth breaking the law in some way, there’s nothing they could do.”
Paul was silent.
“You see,” Brownlee went on, “the fellows like Blackworth are cowards. They run no real risks, they can’t be arrested and tried. They sit in a nice cosy job, take capitalist money, and talk very bravely against capitalism when there are no capitalists around to hear. The most we can do to them is to expose their hidden propaganda. We pull their teeth, in other words. Whenever they write or publish an article—or a speech, or a review—pretending to be just ordinary American Liberals, we write an article on the same subject and give the full facts. That’s the job we have to do; just show the misrepresentations and lies for what they are.”
“There’s another job we have to do, too,” Paul said.
“We?” A smile of real pleasure came over Brownlee’s thin worried face.
“Yes. I’m in on this,” Paul admitted.
“Well, what’s the other job?”
“We have to find out any men who are in a position, as Blackworth was, to destroy other people’s earning power. He had obviously a list of anti-Communist writers who were to be suppressed and sabotaged. They have no comeback at all against men like Blackworth.”
“Yes, that’s a problem. There we need the help of men like Weidler who saw what was happening to his magazine. Weidler will be on guard, from now on.”
“But Blackworth gets off pretty easily—he’ll find another job because of all this secrecy, while the writers he blacklisted probably had a hard time paying the rent. And what about a writer’s confidence if he keeps getting rejections? Take away his confidence, and his career is over. I suppose that is what the Blackworths hope for.” Paul Haydn frowned. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll send you your first batch of homework on Monday.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll be allocated certain magazines and periodicals. Just read them thoroughly. When something needs to be answered, just let me know at once. We have to get a reply published immediately, if possible in the same magazine or periodical.”
“And if that isn’t made possible for you?”
Brownlee smiled. “That happens rarely. Most Americans are like Weidler: they don’t like being tricked by disguised Communists. But when we find any who seem to enjoy it, then we find them—interesting.” He rose, and stretched himself stiffly. He emptied the last crumbs of peanuts on the ground and watched the squirrels pounce boldly. “We get no pay, of course,” he reminded Haydn. “We are doing this work for”—he looked down at a daring squirrel now clinging to his trouser leg—“less than peanuts. That’s why we all have other jobs. So take Weidler’s offer. And you can start helping the non-Communist writers to pay their rents again. By the way, it is possible that Orpen may find you interesting as the future Feature Editor. Has he any other contacts at Trend that you’ve heard of?”
“There’s a man called Murray.” There was distaste in Paul’s quiet voice and open dislike in his eyes. “I met him at a party on my first night home.”
“Oh, you argued?” Brownlee shook the squirrel gently to the ground.
“No. I was still too dazed about being back in New York.”
“Lucky. Don’t argue with Murray.”
“Look,” Paul said defensively, “is this part of my homework? Because I shan’t enjoy it.”
“No. It’s a sideline.” Suddenly Brownlee’s voice was bitter. “I am curious about Mr. Nicholas Orpen. I think he’s much more than a glib propagandist. He lives comfortably, he travels a good deal. Who pays? He doesn’t write so much for high-priced magazines, he has no private income. So where does he get the money? And why?”
They began walking toward the nearest path, Paul was thinking about Milton Leitner’s story last night. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose Murray could lead me to Orpen eventually. The only trouble is that I don’t like Murray and he doesn’t like me.”
“If he is told to make friends with you, he will,” said Brownlee. “It may only be to persuade you that certain writers are worth publishing. To Murray, you’ll be just another fool to have your head turned by parties where people are obviously impressed by your brain power. Don’t flinch when they claim you as a true intellectual with real Liberal sympathies. They mean it to be flattering. And in some cases, flattery works.”
Brownlee sidestepped two boys roller-skating along the path. He watched them go, their arms flailing rhythmically, their feet flashing in the sunshine. A gaggle of small girls played “run sheep run.” A father showed his young son how to feed pigeons. Three young mothers pushed baby carriages and gossiped leisurely. Two old men sat on a bench with a chessboard spread between them and debated their next moves slowly, while the little group standing around than watched in silence. Brownlee looked at all this and his face tightened. “Don’t get me wrong,” he added unexpectedly, “if any other group in America starts using those Communist tactics for their own purposes—if any ex-Bundists or hidden Fascists begin propaganda or infiltration, we’ll be after them too. If anyone wants to spread his ideas let him do it openly, not hide under false pretences.”
Paul Haydn, marking the intensity of Brownlee’s face as he spoke, said, “You’ve declared war, I see.”
“No. War has been declared on us. I’m just taking up the challenge. And so are you. And so are most of us.” He smiled, then.
They said goodbye at the Sixty-seventh Street entrance to the Park. Brownlee continued up Fifth Avenue toward the Metropolitan Museum to have a look at the visiting Hapsburg Collection before it left New York. Paul Haydn turned south, following the continuous row of trees that stretched along the Park side of the avenue. He walked smartly, as if a lot of his worries had dropped from his shoulders. His decisions were made, and he felt they were well made. The lazy holiday in the Southwest, which he had planned in Berlin, would have to wait. He would start work at Trend as soon as possible. And instead of admiring the mesas, he could wonder at New York’s changing skyline.
He looked at the new buildings on the east side of Fifth Avenue, at some with pleasure, at others with criticism. From architecture it seemed that his thoughts slid naturally back to Rona. But it didn’t take much to make him think of her, these days. I’m just the man, he thought bitterly, who didn’t know what he was throwing away until it was too late. When he was back at Trend, he would have to avoid her. It could be done; the staff was larger now, the offices were more spread out. He would avoid her. She would never notice, and he would, at least, not be reminded so constantly of what might have been. And with that decision, he buried his last hesitation about joining Trend again.
He was now approaching the southernmost limits of Central Park. Before him lay the canyon of Fifth Avenue. The afternoon sun caught the different colours of its buildings, the sky—now high and blue, with the early morning clouds all drifting out to sea—emphasised their varying shapes. The rows of windows gleamed; the flags drifted lazily over the heads of the masses of people who jammed the sidewalks; the river of buses and taxis flowed slowly, steadily. He hesitated when he reached the Square, where General Sherman sat on his bronze horse with Glory, womanlike, leading him firmly toward Bergdorf Goodman’s jewellery counter. Then, following General Sherman’s direction, Paul crossed over to the Plaza. The fountain wasn’t playing, and the smoothly shaped nude on its pinnacle was now a Nymph Surprised by a Drought, but the bright tulips and promenading pigeons and the gaily dressed children told everyone this was a holiday: this was Saturday afternoon, almost three o’clock.
Saturday afternoon, and what the hell do I do? Paul Haydn wondered. It was too late to go out to a ball game. It was too late to c
all up his friends—most of them would be trying to find spring in the country, anyway, planting rose trees, painting porches, going fishing and catching their first sunburns, or trying to lower their golf handicaps.
Across Fifty-eighth Street, he saw a new movie theatre. It was showing a Jean Gabin film. He walked toward it, past the placid rank of elderly horses and ancient carriages waiting for young men to take their girls for a ride in Central Park, past the couples strolling slowly arm-in-arm. Well, Paul Haydn thought, as he looked back at the Plaza, he could always spend a Saturday afternoon in finding out how much French he had forgotten.
II. ANTITHESIS
9
It was the end of April, a cold wet Sunday that covered the churchgoers’ spring clothes with heavy coats and umbrellas. Scott Ettley arrived at Rona’s apartment at eleven o’clock. “A filthy day to go apartment hunting,” he said gloomily, as he hung up his raincoat in the hall closet.
“Perhaps it will clear.” Rona was looking cheerful in spite of the weather. She pointed toward the living-room, neat and welcoming. A small table covered by a gaily-checked cloth was set for breakfast beside one window. The azaleas Scott had sent Rona for Easter were now planted in the window box, and still in bloom. “See, I’ve everything ready. I’ve just made the toast and coffee. You’ll feel much better once you’ve had something to eat.”
“How did you guess that I hadn’t had breakfast?” he asked, beginning to smile as he followed her into the little kitchen.
“Because you never look after yourself properly.”
He caught her in his arms and kissed her. “Darling, it’s good to see you. Even a wet Sunday morning seems different, then.”
“It’s funny...” Rona began, and then concentrated on heating a pan for the eggs. “Scrambled?” she asked.
“Perfect. But what’s funny?”