Mr. Fletcher patted the nearest shoulders and heads. Then he removed his cap, smiled over the heads of the appalling tangle, and waved his hand affectionately at Dr. Stevens. “I’ve brought my children home, sir,” he said. “They’re all Fletchers. Fletchers. Aren’t you, kids?”
“Your children?” wailed Dr. Stevens, putting a hand to the side of his head and thinking very chaotic thoughts indeed. “Johnny! What is all this? Who are these—these children?”
Mr. Fletcher stepped around the obdurate clot of small humanity on the threshold and advanced into the room. He held out his hand to Dr. Stevens, beaming. “It’s good to see you, Dr. Stevens!” he exclaimed. “It’s wonderful!” Dr. Stevens took the extended hand, less in greeting than for the need of physical support. And then a paternal warmth filled him; it was really Johnny: Johnny the tall and slender and strong and sure; Johnny whose heart always led him where wise heads would not follow—to their great, their very great, loss. It was really Johnny, with his dark face and shining, steadfast eyes, good firm chin, thick black lashes and hair, and short, sturdy nose. It was Johnny, after all, Johnny who believed in love as the one power of life. His eyes were wet, and he put his hand on the young minister’s shoulder and he forgot the dreadful unknown children and the ladies and gentlemen. “Welcome home, Johnny,” he murmured. “Welcome, welcome home!”
A compressed-air drill, setting suddenly to work tearing up the pavement outside, filled the library with a harsh, rattling sound like the clatter of machine guns. Instantly, from the children there rose a horrible scream of fright. They exploded into the room, rushed together against a wall, and huddled there, enclosing one another in their desperate arms, and hiding their heads. The ladies and gentlemen turned their eyes stiffly and surveyed them, utterly astounded, unable to move or speak.
But Mr. Fletcher was smiling at them with that incredible indulgence. He moved toward them slowly. “Oh, come on,” he said. “You know that isn’t a machine gun. I’ve told you we don’t have them going off in American cities. It’s a machine to dig up the streets so they can be fixed. Why don’t you come to the windows and see for yourselves? Jean, stop acting up, and you too, Max. You’re big boys. You’ve got the girls and Pietro acting silly too.” His voice became peremptory. “All right, all right, now, break it up, break it up.”
“For God’s sake, Johnny,” began Dr. Stevens in a weak stammer.
“Oh, they’re just my kids,” said Mr. Fletcher, as if that explained everything. “I adopted them. That is, I’m their foster father, until I can really adopt them. Come on, kids,” he urged, “you know it’s not a machine gun. I’ll shut the windows.”
Mr. Montrose had shrunk against the wall near the children, and now he broke away and leaped toward Dr. Stevens. He, who was always calm and urbane, clutched Dr. Stevens’s arm. “You can’t imagine, sir!” he babbled. “Getting them off the ship. It was a nightmare! I tried to call you, but—”
One of the gentlemen, recovering a little, said with indignation, “I think we deserve an explanation, Dr. Stevens. And introductions are in order—”
But Dr. Stevens was watching the children.
That was Jean, there, probably about twelve, with a cynical old man’s hard and narrowly wise face. He gave an impression of intense alertness, and, in spite of the explosion of terror in which he had participated, he also gave the impression of being quite capable of meeting any situation; a kind of dogged defiance glimmered from his white cheekbones, hard white jaw line, and fierce, almost fixed eyes, which were pale and distended under stiff lashes. A shock of light-brown hair tumbled over his stony forehead. Definitely a strange and unattractive boy, thought Dr. Stevens regretfully, for he loved children. He did not love Jean, or feel any warm impulse toward him. And then Jean moved a little, and it was obvious that he was crippled, for his left shoulder sagged, and as he eased it against the wall he winced, and Dr. Stevens could see that his left leg was shorter than the other. Ah, thought Dr. Stevens with pain, something frightful has happened to that child!
Jean was tightly holding the hand of a very little girl, whom Mr. Fletcher was now addressing soothingly as Emilie. She clung to Jean, but she looked up at the young minister fearfully, blinking great blue eyes. “Dear,” said Mr. Fletcher, touching her long and tangled brown hair, “aren’t you my darling baby? Sure you are. There, now, don’t cry. You know what I told you—everybody loves you here.” He smiled down at her pointed little face, in which the pale lips quivered babyishly, for she could not have been more than five. She was so very thin, almost a skeleton, and now her body trembled in the ill-fitting clothing she wore. She began to sob like the infant she was, big heaving breaths of sobs, but as Mr. Fletcher continued to stroke her head tenderly her trembling died away, and she pressed her forehead against the minister’s hand like a child seeking refuge. Oh, the poor little one, thought Dr. Stevens. And now the child was quiet, huge glistening tears on her pinched face.
Johnny Fletcher turned to Dr. Stevens. “This is my boy Max,” he said, seriously. “My son, Max.” He put his hand on the shoulder of a largish boy of about eleven, who did not look up at him. Lumpish, thought Dr. Stevens with pity, or perhaps merely dazed. Max gave the impression of not being present at all, but living in some awful experience he had half forgotten but the effects of which were still with him. His large bones gave him the appearance of being more solid than he actually was, for closer inspection showed that his shoulders were meagerly covered with flesh, and his hands, though big, were gaunt. His square face was all bone; he had famished brown eyes, staring yet empty, and his tan-colored hair was disordered, standing in random peaks all over his round head. Is the boy an imbecile? wondered Dr. Stevens sadly. He noticed that Max, after one brief upward glance at the minister, a glance that held no expression at all, fixed his eyes on his hands and stood in rigid silence. And then the hands moved together convulsively, and to Dr. Stevens’s renewed compassion and dread, the hands began to wring themselves, over and over, in the immemorial gestures of utter despair—the despair of a broken man.
“My son, Max,” repeated Johnny in a loud and loving voice. The boy started. Slowly the hands stopped their wringing; they remained together, palms pressed against each other. “Son,” said Johnny, “you’re a fine big boy. Don’t you remember me, your father?”
Max’s eyes, fastened on his hands, blinked. His lids moved as if very heavy, and then he raised his eyes and looked at Johnny. No expression filled them, but his hands dropped to his sides. Johnny ruffled the peaks of dry hair and smiled contentedly. “My good son, Max,” he said. A deep sigh came from the child, as if he were falling asleep.
Next to him stood a boy about nine, who could not keep still. His extremely mobile and sensitive face twitched; his dark skin quivered constantly. His enormous black eyes glittered under trembling brows and a mass of black curls. He glanced everywhere, furtively but all-seeing; his arms, legs, and starveling’s body jerked as if he were suffering from some grave nervous disorder. He had a monkey’s air of aimless energy, and his fingers kept flaring out and in against his palm. The boy began to rise and fall on his toes; his knees splayed; his shoulders hunched. “My son, Pietro,” said Johnny, proudly. “He gets around everywhere.”
The shifting gleaming eyes halted, and then turned sidelong up to Johnny. The minister nodded. “Good boy, Pietro?”
A cunning flash touched those wild eyes, but the boy answered obediently with a foreign accent, “Good—boy.” A liar, a conforming liar, speculated the astute Dr. Stevens. Where in the name of heaven has he come from?
“And now,” Johnny went on in that same tone of paternal pride, “my big daughter, Kathy. Look at those rosy cheeks.” He gently pinched the little girl’s cheek, which, though it was not exactly “rosy,” had a tinge of childish color in it. Kathy, like Max, was big, and she was probably about eleven years old too. Her clothes, obviously second- or third-hand, fitted her better than the others’ clothing fitted them, for she had a firm a
nd sturdy body. And she had a maternal look, absurdly touching in so young a child. Somewhere she had secured a bright blue ribbon, which she had attached to the very long, very thick, braid of absolutely blond hair which dangled from her smooth golden scalp. Her round eyes were the color of the ribbon, surrounded by yellow lashes, and she had a round, somewhat pursed mouth, and a pudgy nose. Dutch? wondered Dr. Stevens. Her eyes flickered as she looked at the immobile group in the library. No trust for anyone there, thought Dr. Stevens. But she’ll manage; she is the kind which always does, somehow.
She permitted Johnny to pat her head, rather than submitted to the caress. Dr. Stevens smiled a little. Johnny was turning to him. “It took me months to bring them over here, sir. All kinds of red tape. And then they couldn’t come until the authorities were sure they’d become a little ‘civilized,’ as they said. Well, they were sort of savage, but then who could blame them?”
“We seem a little ahead of ourselves. Explanations can come later, Johnny,” said Dr. Stevens. “Er—you haven’t met the ladies and gentlemen here, part of your new congregation. And the President of the Board—”
The old man’s heart sickened with foreboding, for the gentlemen to whom Johnny—brave, strong, and gentle Johnny—was being introduced, acknowledged the introductions with august coldness, tinged with wary alarm and expressions of incredulity. Johnny, in his somewhat disheveled chaplain’s uniform, in the power of his unorthodox youth, was not their idea of a new pastor, or one they could accept. The President of the Board was particularly affronted, his voice particularly cold and distant. Dr. Stevens knew exactly what they were thinking: A “respectable” minister arrived with dignity and poise, and if it were absolutely necessary to appear before part of his congregation for the first time in uniform, that uniform should be well-tailored and worn with an air. (They’ll never trust my judgment again, thought Dr. Stevens drearily.) Johnny spoke too loudly, and with too much emphasis. He even had a suggestion of raffishness about him, which Dr. Stevens suspected came from raw and dangerous experience, an experience none of these people present could ever comprehend. He also possessed a kind of innocence, almost blatant—poor Johnny, thought Dr. Stevens again.
All these things might have been forgiven him, however, “for the sake of the young people in the parish,” had not Johnny arrived with these “unspeakable” children. His calm assumption that the children, “his children,” would be accepted with compassion and understanding is a great compliment he has paid all of us, Dr. Stevens commented to himself ruefully. But then Johnny always believed in the innate goodness of man. Apparently even what he had seen and experienced had not shaken that mighty faith. There he stood, tall and smiling and self-possessed, either not seeing, or refusing to see, with tenderness, that the gentlemen were repelled by him, aghast at him and what he had done. He shook hands warmly, and his very dark and very brilliant blue eyes sparkled even more warmly. They saw everything swiftly—or did they really see? wondered Dr. Stevens wretchedly.
The ladies, particularly Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Howard, were kinder than the gentlemen. Johnny had a special and protective affection for women, and they sensed it. The ladies even forgot to look at the children while they searchingly examined Johnny and considered him, and in spite of their reserved manner and their cool faces some tentative thoughtfulness replaced the original hardness in their eyes. But the gentlemen turned from Johnny and furtively studied the monstrous children, still huddled against the wall, and Mr. Montrose, who had taken refuge behind the big mahogany desk. I never knew before what a fool Montrose is, Dr. Stevens said to himself, with irritation. And what a—what is it they call it?—yes, a ham. He’s not half as terrified or appalled by those little wretches as he pretends to be. Now that I recall it, he never did like Johnny very much, and always resented my fondness for him. Is he punishing us both now?
And yet, those children!
Dr. Stevens came to himself with a start. What was Johnny saying to the ladies clustered about him, speaking in that deep steady voice of his? “Yes, Mrs. Howard. That’s what I called it, in Munich. Nightmare Road. I first saw it at night. Hitler’s city, they called Munich; it was his headquarters, you know, his favorite place when he wasn’t at Berchtesgaden. I stayed for a few days at the Four Seasons Hotel in Munich, before I was sent on to Salzburg. Once it had been the finest hotel in that part of Europe; now it was a shattered wreck. The owners were bravely putting it together, foot by foot. The great dining room, famous all over Europe, was gone, but I heard stories of its grandeur. The owners were using the ‘tea room’ as the dining room, and they had an orchestra, composed of old men, who played for dinner. Old men; broken, very tired, old men. Yet somehow, watching the workers rebuilding that hotel, and watching the orchestra, and watching the maître d’hôtel marching around, with his big mustaches, and bowing, and supervising what was left of the wines, and inspecting the dishes, I was proud, all over again, of my fellow man.”
“But, they are Germans!” exclaimed the President of the Board. “Our enemies! Mr. Fletcher, are you proud of the Germans?”
His frozen eyes caught the eyes of the other gentlemen, and the bouquet of cold repudiation was presented to Johnny in one long stare.
Johnny was silent. Slowly those extraordinarily dark-blue eyes touched face after face, probing, seeking. But even the ladies were withdrawing from him, drawing together with the gentlemen in a phalanx of umbrage and rejection. Johnny saw it. His dark face became sad, then very stern. He seemed to grow in stature, to tower over everyone in the room, through which blew an utter silence. Even the children were still; the constant, low muttering had subsided. Even Mr. Montrose was transfixed by something strange that was happening, instant by instant. And Dr. Stevens felt a quickening of his heart. It was only his imagination, of course, but it appeared to him that the sunset light, streaming through the tall windows, was slowly concentrating on Johnny, like a nimbus.
“Enemies?” repeated Johnny, and his voice, though soft, penetrated clearly to every corner of the big library. He glanced at the children; they were listening. For a moment his expression softened, became even more sorrowful. “Enemies? Does a nation awaken one morning and suddenly decide, all at once, that another nation is its enemy? Where are those, now, who made the Germans our enemies, and the enemies of their neighbors? I tell you,” and now his voice rose on a profound and shaking note, “that Hitler is dead, and Mussoline is dead, and many of their generals and their advisers are dead. But the men who made the Germans our enemies are not dead! They never die!”
His eyes were a flash of blue in his face. “They are the men who create Hitlers and Mussolinis, and Stalins, too. They are the men who hate all of us, and have hated mankind from the very beginning. They are the men who choose and set up despots, who plan, behind bronze doors in every capital in the world, what nation shall hate another nation, what war shall be drummed up from hell in what year.”
His voice shook, but was charged even mightier with power. Everyone gazed at him, fascinated, immobilized. He trembled with anger. His eloquent hands lifted and gestured, not with despair, but with wrath.
“They never change!” he cried. “Down through the ages they’ve come, gathering force, gathering influence, shadowfaced men behind kings and presidents and dictators! Speaking in languages now dead, speaking today in English and French and German and Russian and Chinese and Japanese. And tomorrow they’ll speak other languages not yet invented, to peoples not yet born, in cities not yet built, in nations whose boundaries are not yet set! Our enemies!”
Oh, Johnny, thought Dr. Stevens, and his old eyes were wet. But the ladies and gentlemen had withdrawn even farther from the young minister, and they stared at him in mingled bewilderment and outrage, utterly uncomprehending, the little flowered walls of their lives trembling in a wind which had never assaulted them before.
The children—the frightful children—were listening. It was not possible that they could have understood all the words, all the i
mplications, that came from Johnny Fletcher. Yet some emanation sprang from the young minister which they instinctively recognized, as the others did not. They stood huddled together, eyes and mouths open, listening, hardly breathing, while their elders merely gaped, looked affronted, and retreated coldly. But then, thought Dr. Stevens, didn’t He say that unless we became as little children—?
“Really, Mr. Fletcher,” said the President of the Board in his best director’s voice. He glanced at the others, and faint, well-bred smiles of disdain answered him reassuringly. “And may I ask who ‘they’ are?”
“I have told you. You’ll never recognize them, just as your ancestors never recognized them.” For a moment, but only a moment, Johnny seemed very tired, and his voice was subdued. Then, all at once, he was tall and passionate again, and his voice rose.
“It isn’t fashionable, any longer, to believe in Satan, or Lucifer. After all, we’re civilized, aren’t we? Lucifer, in the Old Testament, is only a symbol, our best theologians say. He is just something the best schools can eradicate with education. He is the bogeyman of the Dark Ages. He is the psychiatrist’s subconscious and id. Just bring him out into the light of day, on a psychiatrist’s couch, and what is Satan? Why, he hasn’t any reality at all, and he can be abolished with a few soothing sessions or a series of shock treatments!”
Well, thought Dr. Stevens, that does it, Johnny!
Johnny sighed. “I should like to show you Europe now. I should like to show you not just five children like these, but tens of thousands. I should like to take you through the broken cities, the shattered churches, the ruins of museums, the rubble of schools and universities, the splintered streets. I should like to conduct you through the concentration camps, the gas chambers, the crematoriums where thousands of men and women and babies died. I should like to point out to you the endless acres where our young American dead lie, sleeping forever under the sun. Perhaps even one old man’s face, or an old woman’s, looking emptily on a smashed little house or a trampled garden, would be enough. Or the death cry of a child under a fallen wall. Or the blind, crazed eyes of a young soldier who will never recognize anyone again, not even his mother. And then I’d ask you—who else but Lucifer, who never sleeps, and knows his own and employs them?”