Neither Five Nor Three

  “Perhaps I’d have done nothing more about that (after all, writers can be prima donnas) but Burnett, who is now head of our architecture section, came to see me. Blackworth had been running a series of articles on housing. Naturally, Burnett and his department were surprised and interested. Rona Metford—remember her? She’s done very well, you know—well, Rona had been making a special study of post-war housing for one of her courses at Columbia this winter, and she insisted that the writer of those articles was lying. She tipped Blackworth off about that, as soon as she read the first article; but no action was taken, for a second, and then a third, article was published. So Burnett was worried. He brought me the three last numbers of Trend where Rona had underlined all the oversimplifications and misrepresentations. His own verdict was that the articles were definitely misleading.

  “I wanted facts. So I sent for Rona. She made a list of them for me. She agreed that there had been mistakes in post-war housing, but things weren’t as bad or vicious as Trend made them out to be. The effect of those three articles, as Rona pointed out, was to make our readers think that America was run by cheats and crooks.”

  Weidler took a deep breath there, shaking his head, a wry smile on his lips.

  “I sent her away, told her to keep quiet about it. But I studied her list of figures, and the marked magazines. I called in a couple of other architects, a couple of experts on housing, and a couple of building contractors. By the time they had verified Rona’s analysis, I was pretty damned mad.

  “Then I checked on the new feature writers who had been printed by us recently. Some of them had written for us before, but it was odd that their articles were usually accepted when Crowell was ill and Blackworth was in charge. In the last six months we had had some articles by writers I didn’t know at all—new discoveries, apparently. When I looked at the tone of their work really carefully, I decided to check on their names. I got some expert help on that. And one of them at least was using a phony name. He’s an admitted member of the Communist Party. But he wasn’t presented to our readers as that. You know those little captions we put on the ‘Introduction to Contributors’ page? He was listed simply as ‘William Slade, writer, lecturer, and collector of rare coins.’ Strictly double-headed eagles, I’d imagine... His real name is Nicholas Orpen. Ever heard of him?”

  Paul shook his head. “New to me.”

  “Few people remember him. But I’ve known about him for some years,” Bill Weidler said. “I know a lot about Orpen.” He shook his head in distaste, and fell silent for a few moments. Then he roused himself. “Orpen’s article was a clever piece. It pretended to discuss the reasons for decadence in American writing. You were left with the feeling that a system such as ours would inevitably result in decadence. It was after this that I decided to take some action. I didn’t know how far the thing had gone. But apart from the fact that I had to get rid of Blackworth, I didn’t know quite how to do it. It wasn’t as easy as it sounds. I wanted no scandal, nothing to ruin Trend’s reputation, nothing to stampede our readers away from us. You see?”

  Paul nodded.

  “In a way,” Weidler said, “I felt I was fighting shadows.”

  “But,” Paul reminded him, “if there’s no substance, there’s no shadow. Anyway, what did you do?”

  “The obvious thing. I asked a man at the FBI for advice. He told me the FBI could only deal with people’s actions, not with people’s political ideas. And there is no law against anyone refusing to buy from certain firms or stores, or from certain writers. People are allowed to have their own prejudices, their own opinions. If I challenged him, Blackworth could always retort that he wasn’t forcing our readers to believe anything—he was only publishing what he considered good writing.”

  “Well, how did you fire him?”

  “By asking him about our new contributors. Had he met them? Of course he had—that’s part of his expense account. Then I asked about the man who was modestly called a ‘writer, lecturer, and collector of rare coins.’ Blackworth said he was a nice guy to meet, shy and retiring, that his material was well written, and that he seemed a good man to have as a regular contributor. So then I said, ‘If you’ve met him, you must have recognised his face. For he taught you at Monroe College fifteen years ago. And you know the scandal that broke out there in 1941.’”

  Paul said, “Then Blackworth protested it was persecution, not scandal. He probably said that Orpen was no longer a Communist, and he had to live, and you couldn’t take his livelihood away from him. Was that his reply?”

  Weidler looked up at Paul then. “More or less,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “They keep repeating their patterns. I had the same defence from hidden Nazis and disguised Communists trying to slip into German newspapers. Same old story. Always appealing to human decency and conscience, although they themselves try to kick all anti-totalitarian writers into the gutter. They have no conscience about ruining other people’s careers. So, what did you do?”

  “I lost my temper. I showed him Rona Metford’s analysis. I told him he’d better leave. He wanted to know my exact reasons. But I’d got my temper under control again, and I said he was leaving simply because he didn’t suit us. No, he didn’t get any libel suit out of me!”

  “Then he said that publishers shouldn’t be dictators, that all kinds of opinions should be given freedom of expression?” Paul asked.

  “But I had an answer for that. I said if he felt free to choose the feature writers, surely I had the same freedom to choose the members of my staff? He had followed his own taste and judgment: that was what I was doing, too.”

  There was a long silence.

  Then Weidler spoke again. “You believe I was right, don’t you?” He was still worrying about his decision.

  Paul Haydn nodded. He was thinking of his plane trip home, of Roger Brownlee who had sat next to him and tried to enlist his interest in something that had seemed fantastic. Yet Brownlee’s guarded generalisations now began to fall into an understandable pattern. But where Weidler believed that he alone had been singled out for this bit of treachery (part of his indignation was based on the feeling he was fighting a propaganda battle all by himself, with little understanding expected from either his readers or his friends), Brownlee saw it all as a widely thrown net where people were often caught because they felt they were alone and helpless.

  “I know a man—he was my colonel at one time,” Paul said, “who knows a lot about propaganda. He made a particular study of the fall of France in 1940. He came to the belief that France was defeated before the German armies reached her border. I used to think he was a bit hipped on the subject. But—perhaps I was wrong.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “I don’t think so.” Better not give away Brownlee’s name, even to Weidler, until Brownlee said it was all right. “Before the war came,” Paul went on, “he used to work for Consumers’ Union. He tracked down all the false advertisements, the misleading statements made by dubious manufacturers. He believed that the public ought to know what it was buying. He feels very much the same about propaganda. Take away the tinsel and the gay wrapping paper and let people see what really lies inside. All ingredients to be marked honestly on the outside of the box. Then, if people still insist on buying it, the responsibility is all theirs.”

  “That makes solid good sense,” Weidler said, suddenly interested. “That’s an idea worth following through.”

  “And that is what he means to do. It seems to him that people have been offered a lot of packaged ideas in these last few years without being told what the packages really contain. Just as the people of France were sold ideas such as ‘Imperialist war,’ ‘Patriotism is for the rich,’ ‘Hitler doesn’t mean the destruction of France,’ ‘Why fight for England?’ But by the end of 1940 Frenchmen were beginning to realise that they had been duped. Patriotism was for every man, if he wanted to stay a Frenchman. They weren’t fighting for anything except their own freedom. By that time,
it was too late to fight ideas with ideas. It was a case, then, of fighting with machine guns too, of underground warfare, of risking torture and death and the destruction of their families.”

  “I’d like to see you do a series of articles on that,” said Weidler. Then regretfully, “Only, of course, we steer clear of politics.”

  “What has Blackworth been doing? Concentrating on the beauty of abstract art or the joys of travel?”

  Weidler looked at Paul Haydn almost angrily. “You’ve come back speaking plainly,” he said. But he was thinking over what Haydn had told him.

  “Yes. And I’m going to add this too,” Paul said. “There will be other Blackworths trying to edge their way into Trend. Don’t think you can relax, now that you’ve found him out. This is going to be a struggle for power for the next ten or twenty years. Perhaps longer. Some struggles for power used up centuries.”

  Weidler said, “Will you take this job on Trend, Paul?”

  Paul hesitated. “I’m closer to taking it than I was,” he said frankly. “I need a few days to think it all over. The situation is all clearer to be. But—Bill, why don’t you publish the story you told me? Just as you’ve told it to me? Let your readers know. Let the public see what is happening.”

  Weidler’s frown came back. “You know what will happen? There will be a campaign against us. We’ll be called fascists, warmongers, American imperialists, witch-hunters.”

  “You’ve forgotten to add ‘hysteria-inciters,’” Paul said, smiling. “Strange how often they’ve been using ‘hysteria’ recently—almost hysterically, in fact.” Then, seriously, “We can, of course, let ourselves be blackmailed into silence. That is one of their tactics. We are supposed not to join together and pool our experiences. We have all to keep on worrying in private, and hush everything up publicly. Just like the victims of gangsters’ rackets, who are afraid to testify.”

  Weidler said slowly, “I’d like to talk with that friend of yours. The colonel.”

  “He isn’t a colonel any more. He resigned his commission. He sees he has to act as a civilian in this.”

  “I’d like to talk with him,” Weidler repeated.

  “I’ll arrange it. I think it would probably cheer you up if you did. You aren’t alone in this.”

  Weidler looked surprised, and then smiled. “God knows I could do with some cheering up.”

  “Solidarity forever,” Paul said with a grin, as he rose to leave. “That’s our motto.”

  * * *

  He said to himself, as he went down the corridor, “I wanted none of this.” He had listened to Roger Brownlee in Berlin with impatience. On the plane journey home, he had been almost angry with Brownlee. And yet, for the last half hour, he had been echoing all Brownlee’s worries and thoughts. And now, because of Weidler, he would have to get in touch with Brownlee after all. And soon. I wanted no part of this, he thought. But what other choice was there? Turn your eyes away from the war that was going on, the struggle for domination over your country? And then, later—when it was too late—moan about your blindness, your smugness, your vanity, your cowardice?

  “There’s no choice,” Brownlee had said, “no choice. They’ve chosen the weapons. Infiltration and control of propaganda sources. We shall have to learn to know them for what they are. Or go down in history as the biggest boobs of all time. For the writing is on the wall, clear to see. It is up to people like you and me, Paul. It’s up to people like us, who make our living in an information medium—the publishers, the writers, the producers and directors, the journalists, the columnists, the teachers and the preachers, the editors, the television and radio men. It’s up to us. We ought to see the lies and guard against them. We’ve got to expose them.”

  In the crowded elevator, lunch-going voices chattered, cutting across each other, forming a rattling pattern of broken sound.

  “—I tried it on, and it fit perfectly, so I—”

  “—funniest movie in months. Gave me a real yak.”

  “—and she said, ‘I didn’t mean that at all.’ I said, ‘Well, it’s a fine thing you always never—’”

  “The Yankees are much too big business for me. Now take the—”

  “It looks fifty dollars at least. And blue’s my—”

  “Sure, I read it in the paper. She’s getting married on—”

  “—the new Prokofieff. Hope Liberty’s isn’t crowded. I want to hear some other records too.”

  “Yes, he’s serious. Said his drive never brought him anywhere near the green until he changed his—”

  “I’ve been trying for three months to get seats. Isn’t worth it.”

  Paul Haydn broke away from the crowd and hurried out of doors. Joe, staring after him, said to the dispatcher, “Looks as if he didn’t get that job after all, Tony. See his face?”

  Tony, timing the elevators, didn’t listen. “Better take it up again,” he told Joe in his rush-hour voice. “Feeding time at the zoo. They’ll start roaring like lions if you keep them waiting.”

  In the busy avenue, Paul Haydn looked at the faces round him. Why didn’t I choose to be a buttonhole manufacturer, and then all I’d have to worry about would be the sizes of buttons? And my income tax. Why didn’t I stay in the infantry and learn about bazookas instead of psychological warfare? Why did I have to learn all the things I’ve learned? Why did I have to know either Brownlee or Weidler? Why didn’t I shut my ears and stay happy?

  He began walking toward the Plaza. If he had to drown his worries, he might as well drown them in comfort.

  6

  Rona arrived early at the Tysons’ apartment on Friday evening. Peggy, in a neat blue dress, her hair slightly ruffled, a flush on her cheeks, an apron around her waist, came out of the kitchen for a moment to greet her sister in the dimly lit, long, narrow hall. Jon was helping Rona to take off her new white fleece coat.

  “It’s darling,” Peggy said with an admiring glance, but she flinched at the thought of Rona’s cleaning bills. Then she lowered her voice, glancing warningly along the hall. “I’ve just got Bobby to bed, and he’s asleep, I think. Come and help me with the sandwiches. Honey”—this was to Jon—“do get your manuscript all cleared up or we won’t have a place for the beer.”

  “I’ll have a look at the children first,” Rona said, trying to make the two packages she carried in her arms as inconspicuous as possible.

  “Now, Rona, you really shouldn’t have—”

  “I shan’t waken them,” Rona said quickly, and went toward the children’s bedroom.

  “You’d better not,” Peggy said with a smile, and went back into the kitchen.

  “Watch out for Bobby’s train,” Jon whispered as he and Rona stopped outside the children’s room. “The tracks are all over the place.” They listened at the door. Jon nodded and pushed it open gently. “Asleep, thank heavens,” he said.

  Rona stepped in alone, and let her eyes become accustomed to the darkened room. Bobby lay quite still in his small bed, one pyjama-covered arm thrown above his head. Barbara, a round rosy dumpling of a child with fine fair hair pressed to her head by the warmth of sleep, lay with her feet on the pillow. The top sheet was twisted into a crumpled heap; the blanket was cast aside. A brown bear, worn with patting, stared glassily at the shadowed ceiling.

  Gently, Rona moved Barbara right side up, straightened the pillow, smoothed out the sheet and blanket. Barbara stiffened, screwed up her small fat nose, and tried to rub it away with a vehement fist. Then she slumped still, her eyelids gave a last quiver, and she was deep into sleep once more. Rona placed one of the packages at the foot of the cot. It had no string around it. It could easily be opened in the morning by small fumbling fingers.

  Then she moved across the room to Bobby and laid his parcel—tied in innumerable knots, for he enjoyed the mystery of opening them—between the mound of his legs and the wall. She stood looking down at him. By the faint light from the half-open door, she could see the outline of his smooth small face. His fair hair
waved like Jon’s. (Barbara had straight hair, as if Nature had got mixed up in her gifts.) His eyelashes lay placidly over his pale cheeks. He looked thin and helpless, and somehow very touching.

  One eye opened and looked at her gravely.

  “I’m asleep,” he whispered.

  “So I see.”

  He whipped out a gun with the hand that had been hidden under the blanket. “I’m on guard,” he whispered loudly, opening his other eye. He lowered the gun. “But you’re all right.”

  “Who were you expecting?”

  “Underslung Dick has been raising a lot of trouble around here.”

  “What, again?” Underslung Dick had been one of Rona’s inventions which everyone was now beginning to regret, everyone except Bobby.

  He nodded. “But I guess he’s gone to sleep now.” He relaxed, stifled a large yawn. “And what did you bring me?”

  Rona giggled. “You know you aren’t supposed to ask that question.”

  “Only in front of Mummy! What is it? Can I see?”

  “Sh-h! Your voice is getting louder.” Rona picked up the package. “Shall I open it? It’s too dark in here to see the knots.”

  “What kind are they this time?”

  “Mostly granny knots, I’m afraid. You’ll have to teach me all over again.” She began opening the parcel.

  “But I’ve shown you! Aunt Rona, you’re awful dumb.” He looked at her affectionately.

  “Yes. And I don’t know what we’re going to do about it.”

  He gave her a sudden smile. “Aw, you aren’t so dumb,” he said comfortingly. He reached out his hand for his present. “Oh!” He sat bolt upright. “A cow-boy belt. White. Oh I... What’s those?”

  “Rubies and emeralds. Sheriffs always have rubies and emeralds on their belts.”

  “Gosh! Thanks...” He buckled it round his thin waist, and slipped the gun into the holster. “Just right,” he announced and lay down again, drawing the blankets up to his chin. “Sheriff’s sleep in their belts,” he told her.