THIRTY-FOUR
The crowd in the Killarney Rose was rowdy with victory, yelling, cheering, jitterbugging in the aisles to a Count Basie record in the jukebox they could hardly hear. It was like New Year's Eve. Somebody stood up on the bar and started counting:
"One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . ."
"Yer out!" the gang yelled. Then somebody else struck up a chorus of "Yankee Doodle" and everybody joined in.
Beerbohm and Keegan sat sideways in the back booth, singing, laughing, reveling in this instant of national retaliation.
"What a sweet moment," said Keegan. "You know, for a little while there I felt . . . I felt . . ."
He paused, trying to find the right word.
"Like you got even?" Beerbohm offered.
"Is that all it's about, Ned? Getting even?"
"Look at it this way," Beerbohm said. "Hate is very fashionable these days. The Germans hate the Jews, the Italians hate the Africans, the Japs hate the Chinese, the Fascists hate the Commies and the Spanish hate each other. What I mean is, I'm not knocking it. Getting even helps. When you get rid of all the superfluous stuff, then you can zero in on what's really hurting you. Someday you'll be able to deal with that, too."
"I guess I never thought about it in those terms before."
"Look at it this way. Father Coughlin is finished. Huey Long's dead. The Bund is about to be outlawed. Louis has just destroyed Schmeling. Take heart, pal, that's a lot of little ‘get evens.' "
"Not enough."
"You want the big kill, right. Fantasy time—Hitler in your sights."
"How come you got so wise?"
"I got old," Beerbohm said and smiled.
Keegan smiled too and said, "Well, it's been one helluva night, let's not spoil it."
A young man in knickers and a cap sheepishly entered the bar, stared wide-eyed at the party, edged his way to the corner of the bar. He cupped his hands and yelled to Tiny who nodded and pointed to the booth. Completely intimidated, the lad scurried down through the crowd staring straight ahead.
"M-m-mister Beerbohm," he stammered.
Ned looked up and smiled.
"Hi, Shorty, what're you doing in here?"
"Mr. MacGregor on the night desk asked me to run this over to you." He handed Beerbohm an envelope.
"Thanks, kid. Shorty, this is Mr. Keegan. He owns the joint. Shorty here's one of our primo copy boys." He tore open the envelope, took out a sheet of paper.
"How long have you been with the paper?" Keegan asked.
"Almost a year, sir."
"Tell you what, go over there and tell Tiny, the big bartender, to give you a hamburger and a soda, on the house."
"Gee, thanks!"
"Sure."
The boy rushed off and Keegan turned back to Beerbohm. The editor's face was suddenly drawn and bloodless.
"What the hell happened to you, Ned?" Keegan said. "You look like World War Two just started."
"Almost as bad," Beerbohm said and slid a cablegram across the table. Keegan knew before he read it. He knew what it was going to say. He had feared this telegram for four years.
"I'm sorry as hell to be the one to show you that," Beerbohm said.
The cable was simple and to the point:
BERT RUDMAN KILLED NOON TODAY DURING BOMBING RAID ON ALICANTE. RUDMAN WITH THE FIFTH VICTORY DIVISION. ATTACKED BY GERMAN DIVE BOMBERS. KILLED INSTANTLY. MORE FOLLOWS. PLEASE ADVISE RE REMAINS. MANNERLY, MADRID BUREAU CHIEF.
Keegan stared at it for several minutes, reading and rereading it, hoping perhaps he was missing something in the sparse message. His throat began to ache and the old anger welled up in him again.
"Goddamn them," he said in a cracked voice. "Goddamn those miserable bastards." He slammed his fist on the table.
"I'm awful damn sorry, kid," said Beerbohm. "I know how close you two were."
Keegan was silent for a minute or two and then he shook his head. "No you don't," he said, and there was misery in every syllable. "We haven't been close at all since I left Europe."
"I just thought . . ." Beerbohm said with surprise.
"That he was my best friend? He was. He was one of those people who make life a little sweeter for you, who care about you."
He stopped and took a deep breath, trying to control the hurt. He began to babble, about Rudman and Jenny and that summer in Paris. About von Meister and Conrad Weil and the dirty little hunchback, Vierhaus. About friendship and betrayal and the dumb things we sometimes do and never undo.
"I'm not sure I ever told him how really good I thought he was. Used to kid him all the time . . . fact is, he had more guts than anybody I ever knew. Just kept . . . going back for more. It had to happen sooner or later. Ironic, isn't it? He probably wrote more about what's really going on in Germany than anyone alive and a goddamn German plane kills him in Spain."
He paused for a moment and took several deep breaths.
"Can I keep this?" Keegan asked, holding up the cable. Beerbohm nodded.
"I don't feel very sociable right now," Keegan said.
Keegan sat for a long time staring off toward the front of the bar. His chest hurt and his throat hurt. Faced with the sudden death of his friend, he wished desperately for just five minutes to tell Bert how much his friendship had really meant to him. How much he had missed him these last few years. How much he admired his talent and courage and insight. How much he had learned about love and devotion from him and from Jenny.
Too late. Too late for anything. He folded the cable several times and stuck it in his pocket. "I'm sorry, pal," he said to nobody. "I'm so sorry."
Finally he got up, walked across to Fifth Avenue and up past St. Patrick's. Then he crossed over to Third Avenue and wandered back down, thinking about his two best friends. Beerbohm was right, he wanted to hurt somebody, to get even. But who was there to hurt? He picked up the News at a corner stand. Bob Considine's story was on the front page.
"Listen to this, buddy," it began, "for it comes from a guy whose palms are still wet, whose throat is dry and whose jaw is still agape from the utter shock of watching Joe Louis knock out Max Schmeling . . ."
Christ, he thought, what am I doing reading about a prizefight? He threw the paper in a trash can and went back to the Rose, seeking the security of his back booth. But the joy of the crowd was more than he could handle and he went up to his apartment. He got a bottle of champagne from the walk-in refrigerator, took three tulip glasses from the cabinet, went into the living room and took a scrapbook from the bookcase. He sat down on the sofa, popped the cork and poured three glasses. Keegan clinked his glass against theirs.
"Salud, " he said.
He had started the scrapbook when Rudman went to Ethiopia, carefully pasting each dispatch in its pages. He had planned to give it to Bert as a peace offering when he finally returned from the wars. He started turning the pages, stopping occasionally to reread a particularly poignant or significant story.
Mussolini Invades Ethiopia; Bombers Attack Civilians
by
Bert Rudman
ADOWA, ETHIOPIA, Oct. 3, 1935. The barefoot tribes of Haile Selassie, Lion of Judah, Emperor of Ethiopia, direct descendant of the kings of the Ras Tafari, and Prince of the ancient tribes of the Nile, were attacked today by the tanks, bombers and booted legions of Benito Mussolini, the barber turned Dictator of Italy.
In what may very well be an Apocalyptic vision of modern warfare, bombs and incendiaries shrieked down from the night sky on helpless civilians. In the chaos that followed, great fires swept the city and the confused and wounded raced through the blazing city like mice in a maze . . .
And less than six months later . . .Ethiopia Falls in Italy's Slaughter of the Innocents
by
Bert Rudman
ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA, Feb. 28, 1936. The Lion of Judah has been caged and tamed by the Roman Legions of Dictator Mussolini. But in winning this victory, Italy has fouled its own house . . .
By the summer of 1936, the civil war in Spain had become a reality and Rudman was in the thick of it, where he would stay almost continuously until he died.
Death Rains on Spain's Capital As Fascists Declare War
by Bert Rudman
MADRID, SPAIN, July 22, 1936. Spain finally erupted into Civil War last night as the Fascist Rebels of General Francisco Franco attacked this stronghold of the Loyalist . . .
Innocents Die by Thousands in Brutal Fascist Reprisal Raid
by
Bert Rudman
GUERNICA, SPAIN, Apr. 27, 1937. German dive bombers and fighter planes without warning swept out of the skies over this Basque city today, strafing and bombing schools, hospitals, farmhouses and the marketplace and killing thousands of innocent people . . .
His work was a devastating mosaic of a world gone mad. It was as if a great cloak of darkness had been draped over Europe and down into Africa. And as the darkness spread, Dachau was lost in its core, a mere spot in the center of the growing fascist empire.
Triumphant Hitler Marches into Austria as Crowds Cheer
by
Bert Rudman
VIENNA, AUSTRIA, Mar. 14, 1938. Adolf Hitler, who left this Austrian city as a penniless youth, returned in triumph today and claimed this nation as his own.
To cries of "Heil, Hitler" and "Sieg Heil, " the dictator drove through the streets of this city as crowds cheered and threw flowers in his path . . .
And even more ominously . . .Germany Readies Several New Concentration Camps
by
Bert Rudman
BERLIN, Aug. 7, 1938. The Nazis have opened three new concentration camps in Germany and have several others under construction, according to confidential sources . . .
Keegan was struck by the fact that his estranged friend was the harbinger of his own personal despair. With each story, Jenny's plight seemed more desperate. Was she still alive? Had she been tortured, brutalized, in that infamous Nazi cesspool?
There was one story, late in the book, that particularly touched Keegan. Laced with sadness, it had a foreboding sense of doom between every line. It was written as if Rudman had seen the future and knew his string was running out.
A Quiet New Year's Dinner in Barcelona
by
Bert Rudman
BARCELONA, SPAIN, Jan. 1, 1938. A few of us American correspondents got together tonight for a traditional New Year's Eve party at our favorite bistro.
It is now only a bombed-out hole in the ground littered with the rubble of war. Around us in this beleaguered city, the smell of death hangs heavy in the air.
But we brought a lantern, some cheese and a bottle of wine and sat on broken chairs and at midnight we sang "Auld Lang Syne." We wept for fallen friends on both sides of this bitter struggle and talked about home and family and friends we have not seen for a very long time.
As we sat there, escaping for the moment from this dreadful war I could not escape the realization that if Franco and his hordes succeed in winning this civil war, France will be trapped between Germany and a new Fascist stronghold. Thus Spain may have the nefarious distinction of being the final dress rehearsal for World War II. . . .
Francis Keegan stared at the book, no longer reading, his mind tumbling through time, when the doorbell rang. He tried to ignore it, hoping whoever it was would go away. But the bell was persistent and finally he got up and answered it.
Vanessa Bromley was standing in the doorway.
THIRTY-FIVE
"Hi, Frankie Kee," she said softly, accompanied by a devastating smile.
He was so surprised at the sight of her, he faltered before he spoke. His mind suddenly leaped back to the Berlin train station, almost five years ago.
Vannie throwing him her beret. Walking back to the hotel alone in the rain, thinking not about her but about Jenny. Sending the flowers without any card.
She looked great, a black Chanel hat cocked over one eye, long legs sheathed in black silk, her magnificent figure flattering a gray silk suit, a black velvet choker with a single diamond in the center. She was dressed to kill and he knew he was the quarry.
Bad timing, he thought, until she said just the right thing.
"I'm truly sorry, Kee," she said. "I just heard about Bert."
"How'd you know I was here?"
"Oh . . . I knew," she said, almost wistfully. "May I come in?"
"Of course, what's the matter with me?" he said and stepped back, swinging the door wide for her.
The living room was the size of a loft with a massive picture window overlooking a balcony and beyond it, the East River. The French doors on either side of it were open and a cool breeze billowed through the drapes. The furniture, lamps, tables, were all rounded at the corners and had a soft, inviting quality, the latest in art deco. The room was painted in light shades of pastel—grays, yellows, blues. There were three Impressionist paintings in the room, one by the recent Spanish discovery, Picasso. An open brick fireplace dominated one side of the room and facing it were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, both of which offset the pale colors and gave the room a strong masculine quality. On a table in the corner was a picture of Jenny, Bert and Keegan at Longchamp. It was the only photograph in the room.
Vanessa saw the three glasses on the coffee table next to the open scrapbook.
"Oh," she stammered, suddenly embarrassed. "I didn't know you had company. What a brazen thing for me . . ."
"I don't have company," he said flatly.
She looked down at the glasses again and he wondered how it must look, a man sitting alone in an apartment with three glasses of champagne. How the hell does one explain that? he wondered.
"I was . . . I was drinking a good-bye toast to Bert. Why don't you join me?"
"I'm sorry, this was presumptuous . . ."
"I'm glad you came," he interrupted. "C'mon, I'll get you a glass of champagne."
"Why don't you just drop a lemon peel in one of those," she said with a smile.
"Still remember that, huh?"
"I remember every second of those two days," she said very directly. "I also know about your friend and what happened to her. You've had more than your share of grief. But you can't stay alone forever, Kee."
He smiled as he poured her glass. "That carved in stone?"
"No," she said, her shoulders sagging a bit. She took the glass and followed him out on the balcony. The soft summer breeze stirred her collar. She leaned on the balcony, staring at a tugboat put-put-putting up the river. "It's probably carved in desperation."
"Desperation?"
She took off the hat and shook out her hair. She had let it grow down to her shoulders.
"I'm absolutely shameless where you're concerned," she said. "For four years I've gone to every first-night, every gallery opening, every party, your favorite restaurants, hoping to accidentally bump into you. But you don't go to openings or parties. And I guess you eat at home."
"I've turned into a helluva cook, Vannie," he said. "I'm just not ready for the social swim yet."
"After four years! You have friends here who care about you and miss you." She turned to him, leaning her back against the balcony rail. "At least one, anyway."
She was still as splendid as she had been in Berlin but the bright-eyed look of innocence was gone, replaced by the first signs of cynicism, the first cruel lines of maturity.
"I heard you got married."
"So you do still talk to the living."
"I was never really a part of your society, Vannie. Your father made that clear to me."
"What do you mean?"
"That I'd only be accepted if I played by their rules."
"Which you didn't choose to do."
"Hell, I'm not an aristocrat. My blood is definitely not blue. The last party I went to was . . . I guess three years ago, after the Normandie's maiden voyage. Marilyn Martin filled me in on you."
"I know. I saw you for just a minute. Remember?"
He nodded slowly. "Sur
e I remember," he said. "You were the most stunning woman there . . ."
Sleek and proud, the Normandie steamed loftily into New York Harbor while thousands lined the waterfront, cheering her to her berth. Hundreds of tiny boats clustered around her like puppies around a Great Dane. She had just broken the world speed record on her maiden voyage, easily stealing the honor from Germany's Bremen, so the crowd was particularly gleeful. Horns honked. Whistles shrieked A storm of confetti fell on Wall Street as she passed lower Manhattan on her way up the Hudson. There had been a clatter of fireworks as she negotiated the wide turn into her berth at the foot of West 49th Street.
Keegan arrived just as the party, which had started on the broad, gaily lit first-class deck, spilled into the main salon. Benny Goodman's Trio kicked off and charged into "I Got Rhythm. " The uptown crowd, at least five hundred of them enjoying the hospitality of the French line, jammed against the stage, applauding Goodman's joyous playing, the thunderous beat of Gene Krupa's drums and Teddy Wilson's subtle counterpoint as his fingers barely brushed the keys. At the back of the dance floor, behind the crowd, the more adventurous guests jitterbugged frantically, spinning away from their partners and back, high-kicking, their feet a lively blur. Keegan got a drink and was sampling the hors d'oeuvres when a voice behind him said:
"Francis?"
He turned and stared down at a diminutive redhead. Her hair was auburn, cut short .and close to the nape and covered with a sequined cloche. Her green eyes were saucer-round and ebullient. Energy radiated from her. Her white, sequined dress barely contained a spectacular figure, the small stones glittering in the light, twinkling as she walked and turning every step into a shimmy. A true sprite, Keegan thought. A dazzling imp.
"Marilyn, " he said. "It's good to see you. "
"You remembered!" she cried, obviously pleased. He was surprised himself. He had not seen her for years. Her brother was one of his gang at college and the last time he saw her was just before graduation—before the caterpillar had turned into a butterfly.