The Sound of Thunder

by Taylor Caldwell

  Edward sat and listened to this usually monosyllabic man give him information which stunned him. It was much worse, much more involved, much more terrible and sinister than what he had thought! The papers he had given Hans now seemed puerile and superficial. Hans turned his swivel chair with slow dignity and stared through his polished window. His profile was stern and quiet.

  “But evil, Ed, has a thousand eyes and a thousand brains and a thousand hands. Evil men are the most loyal in the world—to other evil men. The foreign bankers have already made an opening in Russia. The Rothschilds have an agent, the Bleichroeder Company of Berlin. One Carl Fuerstenberg, of the Berliner Handels-Gesellschaft, has already managed relations with the private Russian banking house, the Peters-burger Dissonto Bank. The director of that bank was a partner in the Berliner Handels-Gesellschaft. So now there is a bank of this in Russia.”

  A pattern, huge and malignant, though still vague, began to loom in Edward’s mind, like a gigantic weaving machine. The threads darted in and out, red and gold and black, manipulated by unseen hands.

  Hans continued without a rise of voice or a gesture of agitated hand. He might have been discussing an editorial of no significance. But a spark began to glow under his shaggy gray eyelashes.

  “The doors had been opened, but very softly and carefully at first. The Hamburg banking house, M. M. Warburg, is a family alliance. Another member of a private St. Petersburg bank is Ignati Manus. He is in communication, constantly, with Berlin, and Berlin intrigues in Russian economy. Still, in spite of these men, Russia is still powerful; she has seventeen hundred million rubles covered by gold, both in Russia and abroad. Russia is very active in world trade and is exporting prosperously. Finally it has come to the attention of the Russian government of what is transpiring. The Tsar is determined to stop the threatened undermining of the ruble, and to oust the foreign plotters who wish to take over control of Russia. The government is behind the Tsar.”

  Edward’s cigarette died out in his hand. “I’ve been thinking, all the time, that it is Russian imperialism—”

  Hans shook his head slowly. “No, not the present Tsar and his government. They know what is happening, and that is why they are desperate. They know that Lenin, the murderous and soulless Socialist, is in Switzerland, and the Swiss bankers are very friendly to him, and he has a powerful newspaper there called The Spark. Lenin is being financed by Savva Morozoff of Moscow, a textile merchant. Lenin is also being financed, in New York, by a Russian commodity speculator, Alexander Gumberg.

  “Ed, the bankers cannot do business with the present Tsar and his government. So they turn to Lenin and his Socialists, and he will help them. He’s in exile. He is one of those terrible dedicated men of evil who can’t be turned from their courses, and his friends, the international bankers, know this. Therefore, they help him. He has promised them that when he brings Socialism to Russia, they can exploit his country. That is his promise!” Hans smiled tightly.

  Edward, sick and shaken, looked at the dead cigarette in his fingers. “I’d thought it was just what the Socialists call the mass—and the people who want to use the mass—”

  “True,” said Hans, in a low voice. “But for what will they use the mass? For their own power, their own glory, their own despotism. You see, it is not just the sans culottes. They’re only the weapon. And the international bankers are interlocked with many other men of wealth and power who wish to bring Socialism to the world. Let us not deceive ourselves. The Russian masses are still almost serfs. They are the most explosive possibility, and Lenin and his friends have much influence with them. Marx is not unknown to much of the Russian masses, and especially not to the Russian intellectuals. It is the intellectuals, also cleverly used by the men of power, who have been spreading Marxist Socialism among the Russian masses.”

  He wove his fingers together, leaned back in his chair, and stared at Edward. “If the people of the world knew what Socialism really was, they would reject it; I will make a prophecy. When the whole world—and I mean America also—begins to accept Socialism, through the conscienceless politicians, who are also weapons of the men who lust for power—there will be universal horror. But not repudiation. By that time Socialism will be too strong; it will bring force and terror to the suppression of the people. It will bring murder and police and armies. Once the men of power rule, they will rule with steel and death. Socialism is not the enemy of bankers and munitions makers and other men of enormous wealth. The planned society of Lenin and Marx and Engels—the Socialism of these monsters—will be the society of the despots. Then there will be the Dark Ages again, even in America.”

  “Then the Americans of wealth and power are not the enemies of Socialism, as they howl in the public press?” muttered Edward.

  “No. Who will be the first to be destroyed, through death, alleged infamy, and economic excommunication, in the countries marked for death? The middle class, especially the middle classes of America, England, France, Italy, Germany. They have a love of freedom; freedom is a bourgeois tradition. It came from the hearts of the sturdy middle class, who are individualists, risk-takers, ambitious. They know that government is their historic enemy, and so they try to restrain it. They are like King Canute, who called to the ocean to retreat. On one hand are the enormous, lightless masses of Asia, who have profited and advanced considerably under the trade and judicious common sense of English, American, French, Italian and German middle-class traders and merchants. On the other hand are the masses of incompetents, malcontents and the greedy, in Europe and America, waiting like dough for the hellish leaven of Socialism, which will promise them everything for their bellies, at the expense of their industrious neighbors. Promise them these things out of the mouths of venal politicians, and their masters, the rich and the powerful.”

  He moved slowly and quietly in his chair. “But there will come a terrible day. When America adopts Socialism, though she may call it by another name, to allay the alarms of the middle class, and Russia is Socialistic, which will come soon through planned wars, then America, the Socialist country, and Russia, the Socialist country, will face each other over the prostrate and stricken continents—which they have helped destroy. Then these two will engage for the control of a world already enslaved, corrupted and diseased from Socialism. That, Ed, may be the end of life as we know it now.”

  Edward stood up. He thrust his shaking hands into his trousers pockets. His breath was shallow, because of the constricting heat and agony in his chest. He walked back and forth in the office, and Hans Bohn watched him with a still and expressionless face. Then Edward turned to him and said in a passionate voice:

  “You know! How many men like you know, Hans?”

  Hans sighed. “Thousands of us, Ed, tens of thousands of us, in every country in the world. But who would listen? Should I publish an editorial about this, who would listen? I would be laughed out of circulation. The only ones who would believe are those who know. I am a publisher of three newspapers but I am vulnerable. I could be stopped. You stare. Yes, I could be stopped in America. It would be simple. I happen to love my newspapers.”

  “America!” said Edward, with anguish. “Surely not America!”

  “Surely America,” said Hans. “Surely America, too. It has already begun. It has begun in our government, this year of Our Lord, 1914. In Wilson’s New Freedoms.”

  “Then we can do nothing, Hans.”

  The publisher smiled dryly. “We can try, Ed. We can have it for our spiritual salvation that we tried. And who knows? Finally our scattered voices may reach the captured masses of America and Europe and Asia. Remember, it took only a few resolute men, preferring death to slavery, to found this Republic.”

  “But we have our Constitution to protect us,” said Edward in a weak voice.

  Hans shrugged slightly. “How long can a Constitution resist the onslaughts of wicked men who years ago decided that American freedom should die?”

  Edward sat down, crushed and overwhe
lmed.

  Hans took up one of Edward’s pages and scanned it. “You wish to form a Save America Committee. People will ask: ‘Save America from what?’ You speak of wars. There is no war on the horizon—yet. I recommend that you begin to form that Committee after a war breaks out. It will not be long, I assure you. It was well planned, long ago—the war to enforce Socialism on the world. Who will we fight? people will ask. Perhaps England or Germany or Russia. It doesn’t matter. War is the thing, and continuing wars.”

  He saw Edward’s face, and he, an older and wiser man, was sorry for him. He tried for a little dry and grayish lightness. “Ed, you perhaps can do some good. I don’t promise it or give you any encouragement. But you can try. And now I should like to ask you a question. You see that I’m calm and resigned. But you are in a terrible state of mind. You’re a businessman and a very prosperous one. Why does what I’ve told you, and what you already know, disturb you so much?”

  Edward was about to say, “I love freedom above all other things.” But a strange thing happened. The words formed in his throat, then remained there like iron, and he did not know why. Suddenly before his mind’s eyes he saw a small red sun; no, it was a red and bloody hole—in something. He could not remember; he could only remember that he had seen it somewhere a long time ago. It had enormous significance for him, and he could not express it.

  “I see it’s too big a thing for you,” Hans said with unusual kindness. “Well, let me see. You’ve asked me to go with you to see Congressman Sheftel at Senator Bonwit’s office. We must hurry. You made an appointment with them at eleven. It is almost that now.” He stood up and placed his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “I will not tell them all I know. Either they’re still provincial and unaware or they know too well. If naïve, they would laugh at me. If they know, they would also laugh at me, and I’d have two, powerful enemies. You will talk, and I will listen.”

  They went out into the warm and brilliant June day. Edward paused on the sidewalk and looked up and down the busy street. Those young women in their white blouses and long, broad-striped tight skirts, those bustling young men with hard white collars and eager faces, those comfortable elderly women with string shopping bags, those children with ice-cream cones and skates and laughing mouths—all these pleasant and hopeful people, young and old, busy about their calm lives—did they realize what terrors already threw their dark gaunt shadows over their homes, shadows from London, Washington, Berlin, Vienna, Paris, St. Petersburg? Did they hear the whisperings and murmurs of evil men, thousands of miles away, the stir of documents, the muttered agreements? No. But one awful day they would perhaps understand. Those who could tell them and warn them were too afraid of reprisals or ridicule, or were already marked for vilification and destruction.

  Hans watched Edward grimly scanning the crowds. He touched the younger man’s sleeve gently, understanding. “A beautiful day,” he said. “Polly and I are looking forward to your wedding.”

  Congressman Henry Sheftel was a small and active man, young, ambitious, and absolutely innocent. He had not been in politics very long. He still believed that it was the duty of Congressmen to obey the wishes of the electorate and to represent them with honor, integrity, and devotion. His thick yellow curls crowned a slim and open face, like a boy’s, and he had small and sparkling blue eyes. He did not belong to Edward’s party, but the two young men had known each other from school days, and both had had a background of hard work and responsibility. He had wondered why Edward had asked him to go to the office of the Honorable Senator Thorne Bonwit, who was of the opposite party, very wealthy (he owned an apartment house in New York) and a man of devious mind, expedient and too suave. In Washington they called him Gentleman Bonwit, and he was much liked except by the few of Henry Sheftel’s caliber.

  Henry was uneasy in the Senator’s rich law offices on Mandrell Street. His own little law office was shabby and usually filled with poor and desperate people. Henry had seen the well-dressed men in the Senator’s office, men with gold watch chains, spats and polished boots. He had not envied the Senator his clientele. He had not been in politics very long.

  The Senator had been condescending but agreeable. A big and florid-faced, middle-aged man, full of jokes and ever tactful and amiable, he had large features which gave a meretricious impression of candor. His large fingers were manicured, and glittered pinkly. Seeing them, Henry hid his bitten fingernails in his pockets. He accepted one of the Senator’s excellent cigars and put it in his pocket for his father, who had a small shoe store and could only afford a cigar on Sundays.

  “One of Eddie’s little mysteries,” said the Senator, affably.

  Henry frowned, politely trying to understand. Ed was never mysterious. He was hard and blunt and thrusting, and he meant what he said when he said it.

  “We’ve been friends all our lives, in a way,” murmured Henry. “And he did contribute something to my campaign two years ago, even though we don’t belong to the same party.”

  “Friendship,” said the Senator genially, and nodding comprehendingly. He thought of the large contribution Edward had made to his own campaign. Yet Edward was no personal friend of his, and he did not believe that Edward, particularly liked him. The Senator, who called himself very democratic, had an aversion for people not of his own social stratum and who had made their own fortunes. But Edward was wealthy and he was a friend of George Enreich’s, and George Enreich called the tune in state politics. “Ah, here they are now, Ed and Hans,” said the Senator as, his secretary entered. “Now we’ll soon have the solution of this little mystery! Come in, come in, gentlemen! How are you, dear Ed and Hans? Hans, are you here in the capacity of a reporter? Hah! Fine day, isn’t it, fine day! Always happy to be home among my own friends. Sit down, sit down! Cigars? Why didn’t you ask me to be your best man, Ed? No, no, I was only joking; don’t take me seriously.”

  Something’s wrong, he thought cunningly under his unctuous and bouncing chatter. What’s Hans doing here? Bill 1792? I’ll have to be careful and watch it. Never liked Hans, the cold gray fish; he gave me some bad days after that editorial of his last October. Never liked Ed, for that matter; you can’t trust men who have no subtlety and who never ask you for favors. They save up for the day when they have a definite and serious demand, and it’s hell trying to satisfy and deceive them at one and the same time.

  Yes, it was serious. Hans was regarding him with his chilly eyes and Edward, the Senator thought distastefully, looked like a driver of a brewer’s big wagon. Why did he have to look so shabby and so bulking? “Yes, yes,” said the Senator, happily. “Henry and I have been wondering why you asked him to meet both of you here. Not the same party, hah, hah! But friends, yes, friends!”

  “Stop babbling, Thorne,” said Hans, indifferently. “You never keep your big red mouth shut, and you don’t have to advertise the fact that you visit your dentist at least twice a year. I’m not here as a newspaper man; I’d have sent a reporter instead of coming myself, if I wanted an interview with you. I’m here as an American and a private citizen, and so is Ed.” He held up his hand, and the Senator’s loud gay laughter stopped abruptly. “For once, Thorne, listen and don’t talk. You’re wasting our time. All right, Ed, begin.”

  Edward talked in short and precise sentences, with a kind of cool vehemence. He talked, without interruption, for over ten minutes, and his voice was the only sound in the room. And, as he spoke, Hans acutely watched the faces of the two politicians. Henry’s face expressed in turn, confusion, alarm, incomprehension, incredulity, and then greater alarm. He leaned forward in his chair, his fingers laced tensely together, and kept his eyes on Edward’s face as in a kind of appalled trance.

  But Senator Bonwit’s face slowly took on the aspect of smooth pink marble, his handsome brown eyes expressionless and watchful. He smoked steadily and with an air of ease. He knows, thought Hans. Yes, he knows. But not poor little Henry. This is all news to him.

  Edward had finished. Then Hans took up
the story in his remote and unaccented voice, judicious and without passion. Henry gazed at him with mounting horror; the Senator was very still and curiously impassive, though wearing an air of polite interest.

  “Well,” said Hans, finally, “you’ve heard us, both of you. We’re not hysterics; we’re businessmen and we’re well informed: We not only believe what we’ve told you; we know it to be the truth. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  Henry looked at the Senator; his small features were squeezed together as if he were about to cry. The Senator took his cigar from his mouth and studied the glowing end and looked at Edward and Hans ruefully, and shook his head.

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” he said, as if with wonder. “Oh, I’m not doubting that you believe what you’ve both told me. Now I’m in Washington. There isn’t even a rumor, and I give you my word of honor as your Senator! Everything’s calm and placid. It’s true that the President is an unworldly scholar and has strange ideas, but we have a sensible Congress. I assure you, boys, that if there was the slightest rumor—the very slightest, please understand—I’d be almost the first to know. Colonel House is a personal friend of mine. We dine frequently together.”

  “We never said that President Wilson is part of the plot,” interrupted Hans, contemptuously. “He’ll probably be the last to know, if he ever knows.” He gazed at the Senator, who became ruddier than ever. “But you know, don’t you, Thorne? I know a lot about you; I understand you have about a million dollars’ worth of munitions stocks. Besides, you’d like to be President, wouldn’t you? I’ve heard rumors.”