“Ja, das bin Ich,” said Johnny, and he laughed affectionately.
Yes, thought Dr. Stevens, Our Father always replies: It is I.
Would that shattered boy hear the universal answer? “Come,” said Johnny in English. “Come, my son.”
Max inched away from the sink, as if drawn by hypnotism, toward Johnny. He bumped into the table, without knowing; he pushed against Jean, without seeing. And then he was in Johnny’s arms, held against Johnny’s breast, and clinging. The children gave vent to a long deep sigh, and clenched hands on the tablecloth relaxed. Johnny said to Dr. Stevens, over the boy’s frantic head, “He never remembers any German except when he washes his hands. Or in nightmares. I taught him English, didn’t I, Max? We only speak English, don’t we? Max knows a lot of English.”
“Yes,” said Max, from the shelter of Johnny’s arms. “Only English. I—am—an—American—boy. You—are—my—Papa.”
“That’s right,” said Johnny. “And Papa wants you to go and sit at the table and eat like an American boy.”
Max clung tighter. Johnny said, with some paternal sternness, “Max, you are a big boy. You must help me with the little ones. Go, and show them how to eat, like an American boy. Remember? I showed you.”
Pietro, the dark “monkey-boy,” suddenly began to pound on the table with a big spoon. “Sit down, Max, sit down!” he clamored. The other children took up the cry, and Edith, muffling a scream, ran out of the kitchen. Johnny remained calm. Max heard the shout, however, and he left Johnny and slowly approached the table and sat down. So, they have a discipline among them, Dr. Stevens commented to himself. Pietro shoved Max’s shoulder, and screamed laughter at him. The other children laughed with him, not the laughter of joyous young folk, but the thin, shrill laughter of anthropoids in a zoo, hysterically moved to a primordial mirth. Max was laughing, too, but it was a sheepish, human laugh, and Johnny must have heard it, for some of the tenseness left his mouth.
“Eat, eat,” said Max admonishingly to the little girls and Pietro, after the laugh died away in one last howl. Jean glared at him from under the falling locks of his tan-colored hair, and then he must have decided that he, the elder, was losing some of his authority. He scowled in a masculine fashion at the girls and Pietro, and spoke loudly. “Eat, eat. Good food.”
Johnny pressed the palms of his hands together, and his shoulders relaxed. “We make improvements and advances all the time,” he muttered to Dr. Stevens. He rose and went to the sink and took up a knife. “I’ll cut up the meat, kids,” he said. “Steak. Juicy American steak. Just for you. Move your arm, Kathy. Don’t grab, Pietro, girls come first. Ladies come first. There you are, Emilie, baby. Cut in little pieces for you.”
Why doesn’t he let them have knives? Dr. Stevens questioned himself. And then he saw the fierce expression on the faces of Jean and Pietro, a glittering and avaricious expression, as they fascinatedly watched the flashing movements of the knife. This is bad, very bad, thought Dr. Stevens, with new dismay. Really, they should not be here at all. If Johnny could bring them only this far in ten months, how long will it take before they are civilized? Those boys! They look like cutthroats, watching the knife. I’ll have to lock my door tonight.
Mrs. Burnsdale must have had exactly the same thought, for she marched thunderingly across the gay yellow and red linoleum to Dr. Stevens, and planted herself heavily before him. “Edith and I are leaving tonight, Dr. Stevens,” she said firmly. “No, right away. Our lives ain’t—aren’t—safe. No, sir.”
Johnny continued to move about the table, cutting up the meat, smiling, and the eyes of Jean and Pietro watched the knife, and the gleam on their faces became sharper and more cunning. It was evident that they were thinking that if one knife was available here, there were probably others. But why should they want them? Normal boys, it was true, thought Dr. Stevens, like pocketknives. But these were not normal boys, and their desire for knives was not normal.
Was Johnny mad? Dr. Stevens half started up in his chair. For Johnny was laying the knife beside the plate of Jean. He was smiling down at him thoughtfully. Then he said, “Jean, you’re too big now to have me cut up your meat. You know how to use a knife. Pick it up, son, and cut your own meat, and show the others.”
The children had lifted meat on blunt forks. But now they had frozen again, watching Jean. Jean’s eyes fixed themselves on the sharp steel beside his hand. The eyes narrowed, the face tightened, and an evil light shone on it. Johnny was close to him, too close to him! Jean did not touch the knife yet. He merely stared at it, and drops of saliva appeared at the corners of his mouth. His muscles tensed, and then his fingers crawled to the deadly thing, slyly. In a second he would have it, and then he would spring—!
“Pick it up, Jean,” commanded Johnny. “It’s for meat. Pick it up!”
The crawling fingers stopped; something in that barbarous mind must have stopped too, something too violent to contemplate. Mrs. Burnsdale, watching too, moved backward to the door, the spatula fanning back and forth in front of her, as if preparing for attack. The insane eyes of the boy halted; the squeezed lids opened more. And then the eyes were lifting to Johnny, were directed at him. It was like watching an animal changing into a human being, or a madman slowly realizing that his madness was passing.
“You want me—have the knife?” whispered Jean. He was trembling visibly. He licked dry lips.
“Yes, Papa wants you to have the knife, to cut up your meat. Look, Kathy’s meat isn’t all cut yet. Ladies first, Jean.”
The small hand, the human, seeking hand, touched the knife, shrank away, then touched it again. Some fearful drama was taking place in the secret places of the boy’s heart, the untamed places. Some fearful memories lay there, palpitating. And then Jean was shaking his head from side to side. “No—Papa. Can’t cut meat yet. Don’t—don’t know how. Papa cut meat for Jean, and Kathy.”
Johnny sighed with humorous impatience. “All right, just this once, Jean. But after this, you do it at every meal. Hear me?”
Jean was silent; the children were silent. Then Jean said, humbly, “Okay, Papa.” He seemed smaller in the chair, and it was almost a normal boy’s face which stared around the table.
“I want knife!” cried Pietro, bouncing up and down, his hands flying. “Give Pietro knife!”
Johnny held the knife in his hand. He looked at Jean. “Well, Jean, shall I give the knife to Pietro?”
Jean still did not speak. But his eyes turned to Pietro. And then, touchingly. his expression imitated Johnny’s, thoughtful, a little stern, contemplating. He said, “No, no knife for Pietro. Too—too young. Papa cut Pietro’s meat.” He pointed a commanding finger at the younger boy. “Pietro shut up and eat, or Jean slap his face. See? Pietro behave himself.”
“Jean cut Pietro’s meat!” shouted the dark little boy, his black curls tossing about his forehead. “Pietro won’t behave if Jean don’t cut his meat!” He was getting out of control.
Jean, his crippled side sagging, got painfully to his feet. He was smiling at Johnny, as if embarrassed at the antics of Pietro. He held out his hand, and Johnny, not hesitating an instant, gave the boy the sharp knife. Jean looked at it in his palm. There was a loud banging, and Dr. Stevens knew that Mrs. Burnsdale had fled, and was locking a door behind her. Engrossed, Dr. Stevens saw that Jean was balancing the knife, tentatively judging it.
“For meat,” he murmured in a dazed, wondering voice.
“For meat, for food,” said Johnny encouragingly. “Not for killing, not ever again, Jean. My son.”
Pietro was tossing himself about in his chair. But he was cunningly watching Jean, and his open mouth was wet and slavering.
Jean suddenly said loudly, “Shut up, you—you Pietro! Shut up!”
The younger boy subsided as if shot. Jean had lifted his left hand threateningly, in the immemorial gesture of an older brother about to discipline a younger. Then Jean, dragging himself slowly, moved to Pietro, stood beside him, took up his for
k and, using the knife clumsily, began to cut up the little boy’s meat. Again the children were watching, in that dreadful wariness of theirs. Sweat was coming out in beads on Jean’s bony white cheekbones and forehead; his hands were shaking. But piece by piece the steak was being reduced to fragments. Pietro was as tight as a spring, his nostrils distended. A growl came from him, less from his mouth than from his whole body. Max was whimpering. The little girls—and how much more civilized little girls were than boys, Dr. Stevens was thinking—merely sat and scrutinized Jean eagerly.
The job was done. Jean moved backward from the table. He looked at Johnny. Johnny smiled at him, and after a moment Jean smiled. He put the knife in Johnny’s hand, not reluctantly, but as if in relief. He said, “Jean is a good boy, non?”
“Jean is Papa’s oldest son,” said Johnny. “Thank you, Jean.”
Now the children were eating, grossly. Even Pietro was eating. From time to time he shot Jean a marveling, baffled glance.
“Well, kids,” said Johnny, “I’m going into the library to talk with Dr. Stevens. Jean, you take care of things. Max, you do as Jean says, and help Emilie. Pietro, you pass the bread and butter. Kathy, be sure the boys use their napkins, and don’t slop anything on the table. Kathy?”
“Yes, Papa,” replied Kathy primly. That touching, managing, maternal look had appeared on her common-sense face. “The boys won’t slop. I’ll hit them.” She glowered at the three boys, twitched her long yellow braid.
The two men sat in the library, Johnny smoking his pipe, Dr. Stevens indulging himself in a cigar. The door stood open; they could hear what was going on in the kitchen. Kathy scolded occasionally; Jean commanded. Sometimes there was a brief shuffle, or a cry. It sounded almost normal, a household full of brothers and sisters. But sometimes the normality was gone, and there was a sharp, wolflike silence, and Johnny and Dr. Stevens listened anxiously. Then a childish voice asked a question, there was an answer, a clatter of china.
“I couldn’t stand it, Johnny,” Dr. Stevens confessed. “And, you know, the congregation won’t stand it. Just as Edith and Mrs. Burnsdale won’t. Those two are packing right now, you know.”
“Yes,” said Johnny, and he was very tired again. “You know, sir, I have always been, well, sort of idealistic. You told me that idealism is very fine, provided one sticks close to reality. I thought that perhaps the congregation would understand; in fact, I was sure of it. Aren’t Americans the kindest people in the world, sending food everywhere, taking up collections, sheltering children—?”
“Americans,” said Dr. Stevens wryly, “are very simple people. Give charity to the desperate, help the helpless, civilize the uncivilized, be merciful to those cruelly treated, give money, money, money, generously, wherever it will help. But for God’s sake, don’t bring victims too close! Aren’t there organizations, set up by suprlus cash, to help, and let the rest of the world live pleasantly in the delusion that everything, really, is very nice for most people, and happiness, with few exceptions, is the general lot? The grand delusion of America—keep smiling, keep everything agreeable, save the surface and you save all.”
He pulled quite savagely on his cigar. “Two wars only two decades apart, and we haven’t grown up! Parades, bands, housing, playgrounds, speeches, politicians, birthdays, PTA, celebrations, cars, washing machines, airplanes, glittery gadgets—these are the all-important things. But perhaps we ought to understand. Perhaps Americans know, deep in the baseball-loving hearts of them, that, if given the same opportunities as a Mussolini or a Hitler or a Stalin, they’d be exactly like them! Perhaps that’s the frightful truth they don’t want to face.”
“You didn’t say that before, sir,” said Johnny.
“But I knew it,” replied Dr. Stevens grimly.
“Two thousand years of Christianity, and we haven’t come any further?” said Johnny sadly.
Dr. Stevens shook his head. “No further. Not perceptibly further. Except for a few ministers and priests and rabbis. But they were always there, so we don’t count them in.”
“So, God became flesh, and died on Calvary—for nothing?” Johnny was leaning toward him, his youthful face furrowed, his pipe cupped in his hands.
Dr. Stevens was silent.
Johnny’s voice was very soft. “God wastes nothing. He would not waste Himself.”
Dr. Stevens said lamely, “Well, I suppose there are exceptions, among human beings.”
Johnny smiled. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to find those exceptions, sir.”
Dr. Stevens looked at his cigar. His face was less bitter, and very unsure. “A friend of mine, a priest, told me that saints aren’t always in exalted positions. One can be in your kitchen, he said, or mowing your grass, or washing your windows. He can be at a machine in your factory. He can be your employer, your brother, the man who passes you on the street, who overtakes you in his car, who sells you ties or shoes. He can even be a politician!” Dr. Stevens laughed a little. “Well, I think he went too far, there!”
But Johnny was serious. “Your friend was right. Always in the most unexpected places, you can find saints. I’m going to look for them. I need their help. My children need them.”
Dr. Stevens shook his head slightly. “Not in this congregation, Johnny! You’re finished here, I’m afraid. I’ll have to find another place for you. It’s going to be very hard. News travels. You’ll have to go to some obscure place, some poor church—someone, Johnny, who’ll have you. And the children.”
Johnny said, “I did, as you said when we first came in here, sound off a little too hard to those ladies and gentlemen. But, you see, I just couldn’t believe it! I thought they’d understand. And then I saw they were just like the people in Europe, though they’d not suffered the way Europe had. I was disappointed, sir.”
Johnny got to his feet, his face working, and he began to walk up and down in agitation.
“Americans would know; their kind hearts would ache for these children, who had no names, no homes, no nationality, no tongue, and who were only ‘animals’ and behaved like animals. And then I arrive here, today!” He paused, eloquently.
Dr. Stevens examined his cigar. “How did you find them, Johnny?”
The young minister resumed his restless pacing. “I went to Salzburg last October. I wanted a holiday; I’d heard Salzburg was a beautiful city. Place swarming with GIs, and I couldn’t get a hotel room. But someone found me a place just outside the bridge, in a private home, very clean, very poor, but very pleasant. The Austrians are lively, friendly people—”
He stopped at the window and looked out at the avenue, dark, quiet, empty of crowds, with only an occasional cab flashing by with a silent scream of lights. But he was really seeing through his small window in the house “just outside the bridge” in Salzburg, in full sunshine. A narrow meadow, golden-starred with dandelions, and standing above it, a mountain shaggy with forests, streaked with gray stone outcroppings, patched with little fields of yellow wheat, sprinkled with little white houses with broad-tiled eaves. There was a house just opposite, just at the edge of the jasper meadow, its tidy little garden blowing with flowers and diapers on long strings, its grass tumbling with young children. And next to this house was another in the process of being built, not by carpenters and masons but by the whole family—father, mother, and two boys, one about twelve, the other about eight. A baby carriage stood under a tree, and sometimes it tossed vigorously. Johnny smiled, remembering, forgetting all the other things he had seen, the prankish palace of Markus Silicus, the grottos, the salt mines, the horrifying tour through the Alps in a jeep, and all the gloomy grandeur of peak after peak, fold after fold, and the massed purple of clouds in the passes.
“There was a family building a house,” he said. “Papa in short leather pants, Mama with her hair tied up in a cloth, and an apron covering her black dress, the boys, serious and interested, in pants like Papa’s. There had been a war only recently. The town had known Hitler; Berchtesgaden was rig
ht on the horizon. The storm troopers and the soldiers had marched over the cobbled streets. The Russians had been there—all the troops of the conquered and the conquering. Death had been there too—everywhere. And the sound of guns and bombs. And yet, there was that family building a house, of concrete blocks, the younger boy standing perched on a joist on top of the walls, and hauling up buckets of mortar which the older boy was mixing with his mother’s help. There was Papa pounding vigorously with a hammer, and climbing up and down ladders, smoking a pipe all the while. Sometimes Mama would stop working to sit on a big stone and nurse the baby.”
Johnny refilled his own pipe, and smiled that deep and tender smile of his. “I used to want to yell at them when they started the loud work in the morning, just about the time the sun was coming up. But I forgave them everything when the rooftree was installed. Mama brought a bouquet of field flowers, and Papa tied them solemnly among small branches, and carried the whole thing up slowly and prayerfully on the ladder, and fastened it on the rooftree. It was a very dedicated occasion. When Papa came down they knelt together, crossed themselves, and prayed, the whole family.”
Johnny drew a deep breath. “I was pretty sick, up to then, sick of what I had seen. And I was bitter; I used to argue with God every night. That war had meant the end of everything—I thought. And then, there was the little family building that house, and there was that rooftree with its bouquet, and then, in spite of all that had happened, in spite of all the hatred and ruin and death and despair, there was that family praying together, starting again, sure in their faith that God had the answer and they were safe with Him. In more than one way, they were building in the shadow of a Mountain.”
He stopped before Dr. Stevens, who was listening in fascination. Then his smile died away, and his face became somber and stern. “That was the good part. There is a part that isn’t so good.”