by Herman Wouk
“What the devil is that?”
A gray yellow-starred woolen suit lies across her cot. Beside it are lisle stockings and new shoes. A man’s suit and shoes are on Aaron’s cot opposite. He sits at the little table between the cots, poring over a large brown Talmud volume. He holds up a hand. “Just let me finish this.”
The protectsia hovering over them is most apparent here; a separate room for the two of them, though it is only a tiny space with one window, partitioned off with wallboard from a larger chamber, formerly the dining room of a prosperous Czech family’s private house. Beyond the partition hundreds of Jews are crowded in four-tier bunks. Here are two cots, a dim little lamp, a table, and a cardboard wardrobe like a telephone booth, the acme of ghetto luxury. Council officials do not live better. There has never been an explanation for this kind treatment, other than that they are Prominente. Aaron gets his food here, but not by standing in line. The house elder has assigned a girl to bring it to him. However, he scarcely eats. He seems to be living on air. Usually when Natalie returns there are scraps and slops left, if she cares to choke them down. Otherwise the people beyond the partition will devour the stuff.
Now what is this gray suit? She holds it up against her; excellent material, well cut; a fair fit, a bit loose. The suit exudes a faint charming rose scent. A woman of quality owned this garment. Alive? Dead? Transported?
Closing the volume with a sigh, Aaron Jastrow turns to her. His hair and beard are white. His skin is like soft mica; bones and veins show through. Ever since his recovery he has been placidly frail, yet capable of surprising endurance. From day to day he teaches, lectures, attends concerts and plays, and puts in a full day’s work on the Hebrew cataloguing.
He says, “Those things arrived at dinnertime. Quite a surprise. Epp-stein came by later to explain.”
Eppstein is Theresienstadt’s present head of the municipality, a mayor of sorts with the title of Ältester. Formerly a lecturer in sociology, and the head of the “Association of Jews in Germany,” he is a meek, beaten-down man, a survivor of Gestapo imprisonment. Trapped in subservience to the SS, he tries in his unnerved way to do some good, but the other Jews see him as hardly more than a puppet of the Germans. He has little choice, and little strength left to exercise what choice he has.
“What did Eppstein say?”
“We’re to go to SS Headquarters tomorrow. But we’re not in danger. It will be pleasant. We’re due for more special privileges. So he swears, Natalie.”
Feeling cold in her stomach, in her very bones, she asks, “Why are we going?”
“For an audience with Lieutenant Colonel Eichmann.”
“Eichmann!”
The familiar SS names around Theresienstadt are those of the local officers: Roehn, Haindl, Moese, and so forth. Lieutenant Colonel Eichmann is a remote evil name only whispered; despite the modest rank, a figure standing not far below Himmler and Hitler in the ghetto mind.
Aaron’s expression is kindly and sympathetic. He shows little fear. “Yes. Quite an honor,” he says with calm irony. “But these clothes do bode well, don’t they? Somebody at least wants us to look good. So let’s do that, my dear.”
71
MARK! Haleakala, zero eight seven. Mark! Mauna Loa, one three two.” Crouched at the alidade, Byron was calling out bearings to a quartermaster writing by a red flashlight, as the Moray scored a phosphorescent wake on the calm sea. The warm offshore breeze smelled to Byron — a pleasant hallucination, no doubt — like the light perfume Janice often wore. The quartermaster went below to plot the bearings, and called up the position through the voice tube. Byron telephoned Aster’s cabin.
“Captain, the moon’s bright enough so I got a fix of sorts. We’re well inside the submarine restricted area.”
“Well, good. Maybe the airedales won’t bomb us at dawn. Set course and speed to enter the channel at 0700.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Say, Mister Executive Officer, I’ve just been going over your patrol report. It’s outstanding.”
“Well, I tried.”
“You’re no dud at paperwork, Briny. Not anymore. Unfortunately, the clearer you put the story the lousier it comes out.”
“Captain, there’ll be other patrols.” Aster’s irritable depression had been troubling Byron all during the return voyage. The captain had holed up in his cabin, smoking cheap cigars by the boxful, reading tattered mysteries from the ship’s library, leaving the running of the sub to the exec.
“Zero is zero, Byron.”
“They can’t fault you for aggressiveness. You volunteered for the Sea of Japan.”
“I did, and I’m going back there, but next time with electric torpedoes. Otherwise the admiral can beach me. I’m all through with the Mark Fourteen.” Byron could hear the slam of the telephone into the bracket.
Driving in a pool jeep to Janice’s cottage next day, Byron was afire to crush his sister-in-law in his arms and forget the patrol. Loneliness, the passage of time, the disappearance of Natalie, the warmth of Janice’s home, the quiet shows of affection by his brother’s pretty widow — all these elements were fusing into something like an undeclared romance, mounting in sweetness each time he came back from the sea. The flame was feeding on an explosive mixture of intimacy and unfulfillment. Guilt tormented Byron over his flashes of thought about a life with Janice and Victor, if it should happen that Natalie never came back. He suspected Janice of harboring similar notions. Normal relationships can be wrenched out of shape or destroyed by the tensions and separations of war, and what Byron was experiencing was very commonplace just now, all over the world. Only his conscience pangs were slightly unusual.
Something was wrong this time. He knew when she opened the door and he saw her serious unpainted face. She was expecting him, for he had telephoned, but she had not changed out of a drab blue housedress, nor in any way smartened herself up; nor did she hand him the usual planter’s punch in welcome. He might have interrupted her at her cooking or cleaning. She said straight off, “There’s a letter from Natalie, forwarded by the Red Cross.”
“What! My God, finally?” Through the International Red Cross he had written several letters to Baden-Baden, with this return address. Everything about the envelope she handed him was disturbing: the flimsy gray paper; the purple block lettering of the address and of “N. HENRY” in a corner; the overlapping rubber stamps in different colors and languages, almost obliterating the Red Cross symbol; above all, the postmark. “Terezin? Where’s that?”
“Czechoslovakia, near Prague. I’ve telephoned my father about this, Byron. He’s talked to the State Department. Read your letter first.”
He sank on a chair and slit the envelope with a penknife. The single gray sheet was block-lettered in purple.
KURZESTRASSE, P-I
THERESIENSTADT
SEPT. 7, 1943
DEAREST BYRON SPECIAL PRIVILEGE FOR “PROMINENTS” MONTHLY HUNDRED-WORD LETTER. LOUIS WONDERFUL. AARON ALL RIGHT. MY SPIRITS GOOD. YOUR LETTERS DELAYED BUT LOVELY TO HAVE. WRITE HERE. RED CROSS FOOD PACKAGES EXTREMELY DESIRABLE. DON’T WORRY. THERESIENSTADT SPECIAL HAVEN FOR PRIVILEGED WAR HEROES ARTISTS SCHOLARS ETC. WE HAVE GROUND-FLOOR SUNNY APARTMENT BEST HERE. AARON LIBRARIAN HEBRAIC COLLECTION. LOUIS KINDERGARTEN STAR ALSO CHIEF TROUBLEMAKER. MY WAR FACTORY WORK TAKES SKILL NOT BRAWN. LOVE YOU HEART SOUL. LIVE FOR DAY HOLD YOU IN ARMS. TELEPHONE MY MOTHER. LOVE LOVE NATALIE.
Byron glanced at his watch. “Would your father still be at the War Department?”
“He gave me a message for you. You’re to call a Mr. Sylvester Aherne at the State Department. The number’s by the telephone.”
Byron rang the operator and put in the call. Lunch on his return from a patrol had developed into a merry ritual: strong rum concoctions, a Chinese meal, a bowl of scarlet hibiscus on the table, a laughing exchange of anecdotes. But this time neither the drinks nor Janice’s tasty egg foo yong and pepper steak could lift the pall of the letter. Nor could Byron talk about the failed
patrol. They ate glumly, and he leaped at the telephone when it rang.
Sylvester Aherne’s way of talking made Byron picture a little man in a pince-nez, pursing his mouth and dancing his fingers together. As Byron read the letter to him, Aherne said, “Hm!… Hmmmm! Hmm!… Hmmm! Well! Quite a ray of light, that — isn’t it? Reassuring, all in all. Very reassuring. Gives us something solid to work on. You must airmail a copy to us at once.”
“What do you know about my family, Mr. Aherne, and about Theresienstadt?”
Speaking with slow prim care, Aherne disclosed that some months ago Natalie and Jastrow had failed to check in with the Swiss in Paris, simply dropped from sight. Insistent inquiries by the Swiss, and by the American chargé in Baden-Baden, had brought no response as yet from the Germans. Now that State knew where they actually were, efforts on their behalf could be redoubled. Since hearing from Senator Lacouture, Aherne had been looking into the Theresienstadt situation. The Red Cross had no record of any releases from the model ghetto; but the Jastrow case was unique, he said, and — so he concluded with a high little giggle — he always preferred to be an optimist.
“Mr. Aherne, are my wife and baby safe in that place?”
“Considering that your wife is Jewish, Lieutenant, and that she was caught travelling illegally in German-occupied territory — for as you know, her journalist credentials were trumped up in Marseilles — she’s lucky to have landed there. And as she herself writes, at the moment all is well.”
“Can you switch me to another officer in your division, Mr. Leslie Slote?”
“Ah — Leslie Slote? Leslie resigned from the State Department, quite awhile ago.”
“Where can I reach him?”
“Sorry, I can’t say.”
Byron asked Janice to try to call his mother, who might know where Slote was; and he went back to the Moray in as low a frame of mind as he had ever been.
As soon as he left Janice began the beautifying routine that she had skipped for Byron’s visit. Whether the feeling between them would ever warm up again she could not tell, but she knew that right now she had to keep her distance. Janice was very sorry for Natalie. She had never intended to steal Byron from her. But what indeed if she did not come back? The Theresienstadt letter struck Janice as ominous. She honestly wished Natalie would extricate herself and come home safely with the baby, but the chances seemed to be fading. Meantime, she enjoyed the cornucopia sense of pouring herself out to two men, each time the Moray made port. She preferred Byron on the whole; but Aster had his points, and he certainly deserved a good time when he returned from combat. Janice was, in fact, doing a very fair job of eating her cake and having it. She had given Byron his ritual lunch, and the next thing was the ritual rendezvous with Aster.
Byron found Aster waiting in the Moray’s wardroom, dressed for the beach and hollowly cheerful. “Well, Briny, the admiral was okay. All is forgiven. We get our Mark Eighteens, and a target ship for training runs. Two weeks for turnaround, and back to the Sea of Japan.” He made a bravura flourish with his cigar. “Tomorrow, captain’s inspection. Friday Admiral Nimitz comes aboard to give us a unit citation for the first patrol. Saturday, under way at 0600 for electric torpedo exercises. Questions?”
“Hell, yes, what about rest and recreation for the crew?”
“Coming to that. One week in drydock for the new sonar head, and repairs to the stern outer doors. Liberty for all hands. Three more days of training, and we’re off to Midway and La Perouse Strait.”
“One week for the men isn’t enough.”
“Yes, it is,” Aster snapped. “This crew has been hurt in its pride. It needs victories a lot more than R and R. Why are you so down in the mouth, anyway? How’s Janice?”
“She’s all right. Look, Captain, I thought we’d be getting a telephone line over from the dock today, but Hansen just told me no soap. Would you give her a ring while you’re ashore? Tell her to call me at the officers’ club about ten o’clock.”
“Will do,” Aster said with a strange grimace, and he left.
Byron assumed that Aster had a woman in Honolulu, but it had never once crossed his mind that the woman might be Janice. So far Aster had been playing along with Janice’s pretense, but not liking it much. He thought she was making a fool of her brother-in-law. Byron’s naïve obtuseness troubled him; couldn’t he sense what was going on? Aster saw nothing wrong in what he and Janice were doing. They were both free, and neither wanted marriage. He didn’t think that Byron would mind, but Janice claimed that he would be shocked and alienated, and she insisted on discretion. That was that. It was a subject they no longer talked about.
But he was in an evil mood and a lot of drinking did little to improve it. It grated on him when she telephoned the officers’ club at ten o’clock, sitting up on the bed naked, her skin still glistening with amorous perspiration.
“Hi, Briny. Leslie Slote will be waiting for your call in his office tomorrow afternoon at one,” she said with sweet calm, as though she sat at home with knitting in her lap. “That’s seven in the morning our time, you know. Here’s the number.” She read it off a slip of paper.
“Did you talk to Slote?”
“No. Actually it was a Lieutenant Commander Anderson who tracked him down, and called me back. Do you know him? Simon Anderson. He seems to be living temporarily at your mother’s place. Something about a fire in his apartment house, and she’s putting him up for a couple of weeks.”
“Simon Anderson’s an old beau of Madeline’s.”
“Oh, well, maybe that explains it. Your mother wasn’t there. Madeline came on the line first, sounding all bubbly. She was about to go out for a job interview, so she put Anderson on.”
“Madeline’s back in Washington to stay, then?”
“She seems to be.”
“Why, that’s marvelous.”
“Will you come to lunch tomorrow, Briny?”
“No can do. Captain’s inspection.”
“Call me and tell me what Slote says.”
“I will.”
Aster had been around women; he had been in such a situation with the sweethearts of other men, and with a wife, too. He usually felt sympathy, tinged with contempt, for the poor fish on the other end of the line; but this was Byron Henry being taken in by Janice’s coy charade.
“Jesus Christ, Janice,” Aster said when she hung up, “are you still playing games with Byron, when Natalie’s in a goddamn concentration camp?”
“Oh, just shut up!” Aster had been peevish and difficult all evening. He had said nothing whatever about the patrol, and he had gotten quite drunk; the sex in consequence had been a sputtering business, and Janice was feeling testy herself. “I didn’t say she was in a concentration camp.”
“Sure you did. In Czechoslovakia, you said.”
“Look, you’re too smashed to know what I said. I’m sorry you had a disappointing patrol. The next one will be better. Suppose I just go home now?”
“Do as you please, baby.” Aster rolled on his side and went to sleep. After thinking it over, Janice did the same.
By the next morning a telephone had been rigged aboard the Moray. Byron got his call through to Leslie Slote, though it took several hours. The connection was a scratchy one, and when he finished reading Natalie’s letter there was such a long noisy pause that he asked, “Leslie, are you still there?”
“I’m here.” Slote uttered a sigh close to a groan. “What can I do for you, Byron? Or for her? What can anybody do? If you want my advice, just put all this from your mind.”
“How can I?”
“That’s up to you. Nobody knows much about that model ghetto. It does exist, and it may in fact prove a haven for her. I just can’t tell you. Send her the letters and Red Cross packages, and keep sinking Japs, that’s all. It doesn’t help to go out of your head.”
“I’m not going out of my head.”
“Good. Neither am I. I’m a new man. I’ve made five training parachute jumps. Five!
Remember the incident on the Praha road?”
“What incident?” Byron asked, though he never talked to Slote without thinking of his cowardly collapse under fire outside Warsaw.
“You don’t recall? I’ll bet you do. Anyway, do you see me making parachute jumps?”
“I’m in submarines, Leslie, and I always hated the Navy.”
“Bah, you’re from a warrior family. I’m a diplomat, a linguist, altogether a bespectacled cream puff. I die forty deaths in every jump. Yet I enjoy myself in an eerie fashion.”
“Parachute jumps for what?”
“OSS. Intelligence. Fighting a war is the best way to forget what it’s all about, Byron. That’s a novel perception for me, and enormously illuminating.”
“Leslie, what are Natalie’s chances?”
Another very long scratchy pause.
“Leslie?”
“Byron, she’s in a damnable situation. She has been, ever since Aaron wouldn’t leave Italy in 1939. As you recall, I begged him to. You were sitting right there. They’ve done stupid and rash things, and now the fat’s in the fire. But she’s tough and strong and clever. Fight the war, Byron. Fight the war, and put your wife from your mind. Her, and all the other Jews. That’s what I’ve done. Fight the war, and forget what you can’t help. If you’re a praying man, pray. I wouldn’t talk like this if I were still employed at State, naturally. Good-bye.”
When the Moray sailed, there were more defections from the crew than there had been in all previous patrols put together: requests for transfers, sudden illnesses, even some AWOLs.
The sky over Midway was low and gray, the wind dankly cold. Fueling was almost complete. Hands jammed in his windbreaker pockets, Byron paced the deck in a strong stench of diesel oil, making a last topside inspection before the long pull to Japan. Each departure from Midway made him think long dark thoughts. Somewhere around here, on the ocean floor in a shattered airplane, his brother’s bones lay. Leaving Midway meant sallying forth from the last outpost, on the long lonely hunt. It meant calculation of distances, chances, fuel capacity, food stores; also of the state of nerves of the captain and the crew. Aster emerged on the bridge in fresh khakis and overseas cap, with eyes cleared and color restored by a few sober days under way; very much the killer-captain, Byron thought, even laying it on a bit to cheer up his depressed and edgy sailors.