Presidential Mission

by Upton Sinclair

  “Are you planning to see Bill Donovan?”

  “Yes, I promised Monck I would report on his situation.”

  “Tell the Colonel about it, and tell him I say to have his people get the paintings and bring them home. You can fix it up so that your name won’t be involved.”

  “It was my idea to wait till after the war and then perhaps restore them to the family from whom Göring stole them. They are Jews, so they may not be alive. I intend to turn any profit I make over to the Red Cross.”

  “You can do that if you wish,” responded the President, “but you are surely not under any obligation to do it. You refuse to let me pay you for the work you are doing, and tell me that you earn your living out of picture deals. Surely you’re entitled to it!”

  “Yes, Governor, but I can’t deal in goods that I know were obtained by fraud and force.” Lanny said this and then began to chuckle. “I have stayed too late, but you ought to hear the story of how I was tempted to commit bigamy. Perhaps you will give me permission for that! Or is it in Colonel Donovan’s department?”

  He told the story of Rosika Diamant, which wasn’t really funny but horribly tragic when you stopped to think. Roosevelt laughed first and then he frowned. He didn’t often use profanity, but he took time off from his sleep to curse those Nazi demons, and to say: “Some day we’re going to hang them, Lanny, every last one of them, as an example to the world for all time!”

  VI

  Lanny went out from the presence uplifted, as always. He returned to the hotel and slept soundly, and in the morning phoned Laurel, telling her that he would take an afternoon plane. Baker had undertaken to arrange it; also to make an appointment with “Wild Bill,” so that Lanny might be passed into that amiable gentleman’s office without having to explain himself to secretaries.

  Lanny had three stories to tell: first Raoul, then Denis, and finally Monck. The proper heads of departments were called in to listen and make notes. All three of those foreigners were valuable men and ought to be given responsibility. Lanny laid particular stress upon the ex-capitán; with “State” it was a black eye to say that a man had fought for Republican Spain, but he hoped this wouldn’t be the case with the Intelligence service. And apparently it wasn’t; they were using Socialists, Communists, anybody who could get information and carry on sabotage against the enemy.

  The visitor suggested: “You might arrange to fly Monck to this country and let him give you advice. You will find nobody who knows Germany, high and low, better than he does. You might want to put him at the head of a department, or at the least let him teach a class of those who are going into Germany.”

  The stout and rosy Colonel said “Fine!” Some of his assistants looked worried, but Lanny labored to clear up their doubts. He gathered that there was a certain amount of friction in the office, because its head trusted too many people and put all sorts at work somehow. They were as busy as a hive of bees, learning in a few months a job at which the nations of Europe had been working for generations and even centuries.

  Lanny told about his paintings, and the informal Colonel made note of the fact that Presidential Agent 103 had permission to trade with the enemy in works of art. Lanny advised that the paintings be left where they were for the present; also, he thought it worth while to mention that he had learned the secret of Eric Erickson, although Erickson did not know about Lanny’s secret. If he went back into Germany it would probably be through Sweden, and he might make use of Erickson’s friendship in a pinch. He underwent a thorough questioning as to what he had seen and learned in Berlin. Too bad that he hadn’t been able to get any idea where the Führer’s headquarters was situated! Also, that he hadn’t got the names of those generals whom the Führer had been cursing; they might by now be ready to be approached by some Allied agent!

  VII

  Taking a taxi from La Guardia Field Lanny arrived at his apartment. The sailor was home from the sea, the airman from the air, the desert man from his camels. “Rejoice, for I have found my sheep which was lost!” Laurel was so happy that she couldn’t bear to think about how unhappy she had been; she choked up with tears when she tried to tell about it—she was at that stage where laughter and tears are mixed together and it is no longer possible to be sure which is which. “Oh, Lanny, I’m so glad! Thank God, oh, thank Him!” She held on to her husband, her face against his shoulder, to hide her tears. “I don’t want to be emotional, but I can’t help it. I thought I was never going to see you again.”

  He drew away and took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes, laughingly. “What a big baby you are, after all!” he chided. He kissed her on both cheeks, smoothed her hair, and kept on smiling.

  “Lanny,” she sobbed, trying vainly to regain her usual air of practicality, “it is really terrible to love someone as much as I love you. Truly, it isn’t rational! There were hours during those nights when I couldn’t see myself going on with life without you. I nearly suffocated when I thought of it.” She buried her face against his shoulder again. He held her tightly, his cheek against her hair. “Women have to cry, don’t they, my dear,” he mused aloud. “Even you who are so brave and matter of fact.” He knew this would draw a retort.

  “Troglodyte!” she cried mockingly and drew away. “Come, look at Baby Lanny. See how tall he has grown. He is going to look like you, I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid?” he countered.

  “Well, I thought you wanted him to look like me.”

  “What an absent-minded lover I am! But it’s all right, because he is the image of you. Look at that scornful little curl of his upper lip. Just the way you looked at me the first time you met me.”

  They stood together, arm in arm, looking at the sleeping infant. Laurel said gravely: “I wonder if anyone has the right to bring a child into the world today. What a gamble the future is! What might happen to our helpless baby if the Nazis were to win this war!”

  “Life must go on,” said Laurel’s husband. “You and I can only do our best to make things better. This justifies us in what happiness we take for ourselves.”

  “I wonder,” persisted the wife. “I sometimes feel that no one has the right to pause for anything personal until the world has been made safe from war.”

  “I have been told that I have earned a furlough,” he told her, “and I’m going to have it. First, I have a lot of adventures to tell you; then I want to read the last chapters of that literary masterpiece; then we’re going to take a run up to see the family. I have another scheme in my head, but I won’t tell it all at once!”

  He told what he was free to tell about North Africa: the failure of the plane—he didn’t say it was shot down—and his finding a caravan, and his long ride in the desert. “But Robbie said you had cabled from Stockholm!” she exclaimed. He answered: “It was a long journey. There are secret routes, and I am under pledge not to mention them.” That was literally a fact and saved his conscience. He was resolved to be careful and not speak the word Germany to anybody. The chance to go back there was too important to be risked on any careless word, including his own. To tell his wife that he had visited Hitler wouldn’t add anything to her happiness, but on the contrary would engrave marks of fear into her scul. She, too, had visited Hitler, and knew what a den of hyenas he made for himself.

  VIII

  The returned traveler called for the last chapters of the manuscript, those written after his departure. Laurel had sent the whole thing to a publisher who had shown interest in her short stories, but after receiving the news of Lanny’s disappearance she had given it no thought. Now he read a carbon copy, while the anxious author looked at a newspaper with one-half her mind and with the other half awaited his occasional comments.

  It was all right, he was happy to tell her. She had told adequately the tragic story she had outlined to him two years ago. After many interruptions—including their long journey through China—the work was done, and he had no doubt that some publisher would appreciate it. He could help
her with bits of local color here and there, and correct a few slips in her German. All languages are tricky, and this one not less than the average. She had spoken of von Papen and von Ribbentrop, the almost universal American custom, but he told her that it was not correct; you would say Franz von Papen and Joachim von Ribbentrop, but if you left off the first names it was plain Papen and plain Ribbentrop.

  There is a saying that misfortunes seldom come singly, and if this is true it should apply to good fortunes also. The next morning brought a letter from the publishers. They had been greatly pleased with the manuscript; it was exactly what the public needed at present, and the firm would be happy to make a proposition for it. Lanny let out a whoop of delight and frightened the baby, which was contrary to regulations.

  He agreed to put off his trip to Newcastle and went with her to the publishers. He waited in a near-by hotel; they were not to know him, of course, and were to know Laurel only as Miss Mary Morrow, and her address in care of Agnes. She brought the contract which they offered her, and husband and wife studied its complicated provisions. The subject was a new one to them, and they might have consulted a lawyer; but like most new authors, Laurel wanted to see her first book on any terms, and this elaborate printed document was presumably what other authors signed. She signed it and sent it by messenger, and they hurried back home so Laurel could nurse the baby, for nothing was allowed to break that regimen.

  IX

  The happy novelist didn’t want to go to Newcastle; she wanted to work over the manuscript and put in the corrections Lanny had suggested. He took the train, and had a long talk with his father, and saw the amazing things that had happened to the town of his grandfathers. The Budd plant had been multiplied half a dozen times, and the same was true of Budd Gunmakers, with which the family no longer had much to do. There were other Budd plants out in the Middle West and the Tar West, in places that were named only in whispers. Whole new villages had sprung up around Newcastle, built of any sort of material that could be found in a frantically crowded market; the planes were pouring off the assembly lines—that was the way air cover was being provided for the boys in Tunisia, and those in the Solomons and farther out. Budd-Erling planes were being flown across Africa to Cairo, and from the head of the Persian Gulf to the Russians; pretty soon they would be flying from Winnipeg to Alaska, and from there across Siberia. Lanny had to hear all about the new “job” that was the world’s wonder, and he had to go and see it.

  Lanny told his father what he had learned about the performance of the plane in North Africa and in England, and about the progress of the war. He had dinner with the family and then drove one of his father’s cars back to New York. In his pocket was one of those little folders full of coupons that you had to have in order to get gasoline. If you had the support of the president of Budd-Erling you could get what you wanted from the local ration board.

  Lanny spent the next two days going over that precious manuscript with his wife and getting it into shape for the printer. When that was done and the package had been delivered, he looked out of the window and saw the month of March acting up to its bad reputation. A belated snow was falling and turning to slush on the sidewalks; a disagreeable wind was driving into people’s faces and turning umbrellas inside out. Lanny said: “I was told by my Boss that I had earned a holiday, and to take it. Why shouldn’t we?” When Laurel asked: “Where to?” he said: “If it were peacetime I would fly you to Marrakech and let Beauty see her new grandson. The sun will be rising there in a few hours, shining on pink walls and red roofs, and the mosque towers will be casting long black shadows on the gardens full of roses.”

  “But it’s wartime, Lanny; so what?”

  “So we have to stay on the ground. Let’s put a few things into the car and drive south as far as the gas will take us.”

  “And how will we get back?”

  “We will wait a month or two, and some more coupons will come due. Then it will be springtime in New York and the trees in the park will be green and we can sit outdoors.”

  It sounded crazy at first, but lost that aspect gradually as he talked. They would put the baby into a wicker basket and set it on the back seat, with several suitcases stacked on the floor in front of it to keep it from sliding off. Agnes would sit in the other back seat and Laurel would ride at Lanny’s side and give the customary advice about safe driving. Lanny loved nothing better than driving a car, unless it was driving Laurel. They had coupons for eighty gallons of gas, and that would take them to the tip of Florida and leave them enough to drive about and find a bungalow on the ocean front. The “season” was about over, and there would be plenty of room and of quiet. They would sit on the sand and watch the pelicans and maybe Lanny would catch a fish and they would cook it. Since the baby was breast-fed, they wouldn’t have to worry about his diet, only about his mother’s!

  Laurel had come to realize that she was married to a rich man’s son, who was accustomed to have what he wanted. He would think of something, and then: “Let’s go!” She was ready to believe that he had earned a holiday; if he wanted to have it with her it was surely not her job to object. “We can be in the Florida sunshine by the day after tomorrow,” he insisted; and when she answered: “It must be a thousand miles,” he said: “I have never thought anything of driving six or seven hundred in a day, but of course we can’t do that in wartime. You can lean back and sleep, and we’ll only stop for meals. What are we waiting for?”

  X

  They put their summer things into bags, and some odds and ends of belongings into carton boxes that the janitor of the building brought them; they did not forget a box of books they had been hoping for time to read. Last among the bearers came Lanny with the precious infant lying on a pillow in a clothes basket, well covered against the cold. They packed the basket so that it would not slide or topple; they stowed themselves, with rugs over their knees, and away they went, down Park Avenue, across to the West Side, under the Hudson by the Holland tube, and by the Pulaski Skyway to Newark and the south. It was the familiar Highway No. 1, four lines of speeding vehicles, two in each direction. Lanny kept a space between himself and the truck in front, so that the one that crowded behind him might have room to shove him along in case of a jam.

  It was that way to Trenton, and to Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington. Thirty-five miles was the established wartime speed, and it was rarely that you could pass a car ahead of you. It was dark when they reached the capital, and slow driving through the dimmed-out streets; but in the open country of Virginia they could turn on the lights and make time. They had brought a basket of food, and Laurel would put a sandwich into the driver’s hand and he would take a nibble when circumstances permitted. The road led through the “Wilderness” country, scene of many battles; there were tablets by the roadside, but they did not stop to read the inscriptions. Few travelers did, for America was not interested in history at present—she was too busy making it.

  They drove until late and spent the night in a hotel in North Carolina. They were up early next morning and on their way; when the sun rose they no longer wanted rugs over their knees, or overcoats, and they took the covers off the baby. When you moved south you were placing yourself under the sun and enjoying springtime prematurely. The road was still a perfect pavement, but there was far less traffic; the country was pineland, or hilly fields with the topsoil long since washed off; poverty ruled the land, and the cabins were small and unpainted. “Hound-dogs” chased rabbits, and one ran under the wheels of the car to his great misfortune.

  Out of the hills the highway brought them to Savannah, city of magnolia trees and live oaks drooping with Spanish moss. From there on they followed the coast into Florida, and came to St. Augustine, oldest of American cities, deliberately keeping itself picturesque with old-style horse carriages. They spent the night there, and next morning they sped on, and by late afternoon were in the middle of Florida.

  Lanny said: “How about cutting over to the West Coast; fewer
tourists go there, and you see more of the country.” Laurel answered that she had no preference, so they took the road through Lakeland, flat country with endless yellow-pine woods, dotted with lakes of all sizes. The movement of the car made a pleasant breeze and was too fast for flies or mosquitoes. They stopped for supper, and then drove on through the night, with the lights of the car outlining the straight ribbon of road. Three times a deer showed up in these lights, and once Lanny had to jam on his brakes to keep from running into a cow.

  They spent that night in an old hotel in the city of Tampa, and in the morning went on, driving slowly and watching the shore. They came to a tiny village on a cove, and found a modern and comfortable cottage just vacated by its northern owners. An agent rented it to them for a small price, and there they were; they unloaded their belongings, and put on their bathing suits, and were all right so long as they did not stay in the sun too long, or sit on the ground and expose their skins to the tiny red bugs called chiggers. “If the chigger were bigger, as big as a cow, and his digger had the vigor of a subsoil plow, can you figger, picknicker, where you would be now?”

  They could catch all the fish they wanted without trouble; but it was a trouble to clean and prepare them, and they were pleased to discover a tiny café where an elderly Italian with a handle-bar mustache was prepared to feed them on a sea-food “gumbo,” thick with fish, shrimp, oysters, and crabs, and hot with red pepper. One such meal just after sundown, and they could get along the rest of the day on the fresh fruits and green vegetables, which were abundant. Lanny, who had sailed a boat all over the Golfe Juan, hired a catboat and took his wife out to watch the sponge fishermen—Portuguese and Greeks mostly, all middle-aged or old men, for the younger ones had gone to war. Lanny caught a small shark, and once was enough of that. For the most part they were content to stay indoors during the heat of the day, well screened against flying and biting insects.