by James Hilton
“And if I succeed, then it’s true that I don’t care.”
“But that could make you a bundle of complexes and inhibitions.”
“Freudian stuff, eh?”
“I don’t know why so many scientists sneer at Freud.”
“We don’t. All we have against him is that the field he opened up became an immediate playground for amateurs. I’m glad my own field doesn’t offer the same attractions.”
“There’s something chilly about your mind, Brad.”
That made him laugh again. “Only about my mind, though. Tonight I can almost understand why people like to shout and get drunk and beat their wives.”
“But to understand why people do things isn’t the same as wanting to do them yourself.”
“Let’s hope not. Would you like me to beat Pauli?”
“Quarreling with her might be worse.”
“Listen … get this straight about me and Pauli. She’s a wonderful wife, I’m in love with her, and she has her own way nine times out of ten.”
“But this is the tenth?”
“Yes.”
“And more important than all the others?”
“To me—naturally. Otherwise I’d have been delighted to give in as usual.”
“You’d rather fight Pauli than him.”
“That’s an unfair way of putting it and you’re quite smart enough to know it is. I wouldn’t mind fighting him at all if it were on ground where a fight would be in order. If he’d announced something I thought wrong, for instance— though I’d have been a bit hesitant to set my mind against his—still, I’d have done it, no matter how impolitic it might have been. I’m not that sort of coward.”
“But his discoveries don’t happen to be wrong. They don’t even happen to be his.”
“I told you before that in the sense I look at it, they’re neither his nor mine, but the common property of anyone who can use them.”
“Holy ground, eh? Only strictly scientific fights permitted. If you want a private one, run home to your wife. You must be pretty hard to live with, Brad.”
“No, I’m easy. I have few vices and my virtues are decently hidden. Furthermore, I’m a very affectionate animal. So is Pauli. We get on pretty well. You don’t have to worry about us.”
“I know. She’s very happy with you—personally…. And by the way, I’m neutral.”
“In what?”
“In anything you have arguments about with her.”
He had paid the bill and we were walking out of the cafe. He summoned a taxi that was already curving towards us. “I can see your side, Brad, and it’s wonderful and superb, like the Matterhorn, but if I were Pauli I’d probably see her side better.”
“Oh no, you wouldn’t. You’d still see mine,” he said, timing it for the last word as he waved good-night.
* * * * *
I didn’t meet or hear from him again for several days, despite his expressed readiness to take a walk; but I did mention the matter to my lawyer friend, a brilliant young Austrian named Bauer, strongly anti-Nazi, whom I had met at a party and liked exceedingly.
It was the political angle that interested him most, and he confirmed the likelihood that Framm was boosting himself in Berlin with an eye to a big job if and when the Nazis moved into Austria. “It’s a smart thing to do, the way things look, and they certainly look worse every hour.”
I asked him what chance he thought Brad would have, supposing he were willing to begin any legal action.
“Probably not much. To begin with, those documentary proofs you say exist- -the notes and so on—they’re all abstrusely scientific, I suppose?—you couldn’t explain their meaning to a court—you’d need expert evidence from other scientists even to interpret them. Well, where would you get such witnesses? Why should anyone back an unknown person against an influential big shot? And furthermore, even if you could show that Bradley’s notes were more or less in line with the Berlin lecture, who’s to say that your friend worked independently?”
“Pauli could testify to that.”
“She wouldn’t count—she’s his wife. She was also, I understand, a former employee of Hugo Framm till she was dismissed by him…. Not good, not good.”
“But it could be proved that Bradley left his notes lying around in a desk at the laboratory, where Framm could have had access to them.”
“Perhaps Framm did the same and Bradley could have had similar access. What if Framm were to say that Bradley copied his notes?”
“You mean he copied them with a view to bringing an action later? Isn’t that farfetched?”
“A jury might think it looked like blackmail.”
“Blackmail…. That’s fantastic.”
“You understand, Miss Waring, the idea’s purely hypothetical. I’m only trying to imagine what I might say if I were Framm or his counsel.”
“Of course. But it’s still fantastic.”
“No more than the whole issue. That’s the trouble. If it were plagiarism in a book or a play you could get the hang of it, but all this scientific stuff…. What’s Bradley’s salary, by the way?”
“I don’t know exactly, but far less than it ought to be—which is another thing that might show a jury the kind of man Framm is.”
“It might also be used to show them the kind of man Bradley is. Framm could say: ‘These are good wages for a mere laboratory assistant working under my supervision all the time….’ And there’s another thing…. The legal issue would narrow down to whether Bradley had any ownership claim on work done while he was a salaried worker for Framm, even if you could prove that Bradley did do everything on his own.”
“So you think it’s all rather hopeless?”
“Nothing’s quite hopeless in a court of law. Sometimes a decision goes against all logic as well as evidence. Framm’s a charmer—I’ve seen him in action—he has that kind of brilliant ruthlessness that makes him nearly irresistible—and yet, you never know—some people might side with David against Goliath. What’s his type?”
“He hasn’t got a type exactly. He’s shy in manner and quite good-looking. Of course he hasn’t the slightest intention of bringing an action. I told you I was merely asking out of curiosity.”
He said, just before I left his office: “The real dynamite in a thing like this would be political. Nobody cares about electromagnetism…. But if the case were even to be started it would do Framm harm, and that might be worth while from a number of angles…. Look, I’ll take it on. I don’t think we’ll win, and unless we do win and get damages, it’s understood there’ll be no fee.”
I said I was positive Brad wouldn’t bring any case.
“Ask him again.” Bauer’s enthusiasm seemed to be rising as he contemplated the matter. “After all, what can he lose? Tell him my offer.”
I promised, and when I did tell Brad, the result was emphatically what I had expected. Brad said: “So I’m to provide a nice little cause célčbre for the politicians to smack their lips over? Tell your lawyer friend I’ve everything to lose—everything that I care about- -my time, my work, and my peace of mind. The only thing I haven’t to lose is doubtless what he was thinking of … money.”
“All right, but don’t be sarcastic. He’s not as different from you as you’d think. Why don’t you let me arrange a meeting? You might even like him. You could use a few more friends in this town.”
“No, Jane, please keep him out of my affairs. And for heaven’s sake don’t tell Pauli you’ve found a free lawyer. It’s the cost of the case I’ve been stressing to her.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier to explain than the other reasons I have.”
The international sky darkened, with Vienna as its storm center. The city throbbed with rumors and counter rumors, ranging from the dangerously plausible to the sheerly impossible, but behind the smoke screen one thing was clear: events were now too presaging to be gainsaid, either by wishful thinkers or by those whose adherences tied them long aft
er the expiry of either wishing or thoughtfulness. I have been a witness of several upsets that could be called revolutions, and one thing that strikes me as an almost clinical sign of approaching crisis is the way it is smelled ahead by those who have never been extreme enough to make a change of views difficult, or important enough to have such a change suspected. Perhaps the bulk of people go this way and that, not so much aiming to be with the tide as to avoid any feeling that it exists.
There was a curious vacuum in the Viennese atmosphere during that pre- crisis week, a definite break in tension; the crowds in the streets diminished, or perhaps one thought so because they went about more quietly; a few misread the signs and wondered if everything would now “blow over.” But from across the frontier accurate reports came more alarmingly than before, so that the seeming lull was ominous rather than satisfying. To me it was as if curtains were being drawn over big store windows, while behind them dressers were at work, changing the display for some moment of sudden unveiling in a now predictable future. Few people, probably, are consciously hypocritical when, to suit their convenience, they swap sides. Even to themselves the move must be rationalized, must be given that appearance of sincerity which it partly has; and this requires a little time, a few days at least, a small tribute of delay paid by human apathy to the freedom which it surrenders.
I wrote articles during those strange days, and once I called at Brad’s apartment but did not stay long. I was distressed to see that the issue between him and Pauli had already caused a rift, and I knew that especially now I must avoid making Pauli resent my own friendship with him. There had been no sign of this so far, but it could doubtless thrive on any backing I gave him in his attitude. For Pauli, however, mere neutrality was not enough; I soon saw that to keep her warm to me I would have to be on her side against Brad, and this was even less possible.
Meanwhile it was in the papers that Framm had returned from Berlin, a considerably more eminent personage than when he went. The laboratories were still closed, owing to the likelihood of further political rioting, but Framm contrived to get himself into a steady limelight of statements and interviews. He was clever enough not to seem boastful about his Berlin success, but to allow the common knowledge of it to support his political attitude, which now became openly pro-Nazi.
During this interval I also heard a curious story from Bauer to the effect that Pauli had approached another lawyer, denouncing Framm and inquiring about the possibilities of a lawsuit; to which this lawyer had replied that since action could only be started by Bradley himself, there was no point in discussing it except with him. However, the story got around. I thought this a pity, since it made Brad’s attitude look somewhat unheroic; but again there was nothing I could do either by argument or by advice.
Then came a memorable afternoon when I walked in the Prater, watching children play their games as if nothing were amiss in the world—as perhaps, for children who can romp, nothing is. The first hint of spring warmed the air and touched the trees; workmen were taking down barricades from the sideshows in the amusement park, and there was something both comforting and sad in all this—comfort in the thought that fun would still be bought and sold, whatever happened, sadness when one reckoned how many of the quiet unpurchasable pleasures of life were at stake.
I came out of the park to the Lasalle Strasse about four o’clock and waited for a tram to take me to the center of the city. The usual knot of newsboys stood at the corner, selling their rival editions. They did not look particularly excited, nor did those who bought from them. Then suddenly another boy jumped off a passing truck with a sheaf of papers under his arm and began shouting something I could not catch above the traffic noise; but its effect was to magnetize a crowd, so that the next minute nothing happened but people edging out of it, taking a few slow paces while they read, then scampering across streets or onto passing trams. By the time I reached the corner all the papers had been sold, but a passer-by told me what had happened: Schuschnigg had surrendered to Hitler at Berchtesgaden. It was the first step to Anschluss.
In the Opern-Ring when I got there by tram special editions of all the papers were out; I then learned the details. Seyss-Inquart was to have a post in the Austrian government, all Austrian Nazis under arrest were to be amnestied. I read and reread the meager reports of what had happened at Berchtesgaden; it was several minutes before I caught sight of another news item on an inside page. This reported that Professor Hugo Framm had been attacked and wounded by a woman not yet identified.
Of course I thought immediately of Pauli and then forced myself into statistical argument; surely there could be other women who hated Framm … yet when, shortly afterwards, I read her name in print in a later edition the absence of further shock proved how one’s mind jumps all hurdles at such a time; the real surprise would have come if it had not been Pauli.
The details were that she had telephoned for an interview with Framm that afternoon, had been told he was busy and could not see her, but had later seized a chance to force her way into his private office adjoining the laboratories. These were still closed to students, so that no one had seen her enter. Sometime later a janitor, passing along the corridor, heard angry voices, and as one of them was a woman’s, he thought it more tactful not to intervene. A few minutes after that came shouts and screams. The janitor then rushed to the scene; the woman was held and the Professor taken to the hospital with a stab wound in the chest. The woman, it was said, “made a statement.”
I went to Brad’s apartment, hoping he already had the news. It does not always help to have a friend break things gently; sometimes it is easier to take the first shock alone, without an audience and without that compulsion to act before one that afflicts all of us at such times, especially those who reckon to be best controlled. But I was too early; Brad was working and had heard nothing; aware of political excitement mounting both in the press and on the radio, he had deliberately avoided contact with them all day. So I told him what had happened, not only in Austria’s life but in his own; I showed him the paper. Then I left him for a moment while I went in the kitchen and pretended to tidy a few things.
He took it quietly, as I had expected he would; after the first moment of incredulity a slow stricken glare in his eyes became the only outward sign. Of course his first thought was that he must see her.
“I’ll go with you, Brad. Where do you suppose they took her?”
“There’s a police station almost across the street from the laboratory.”
We drove there in a cab. On the way I asked what had happened during the day.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. I was working at home. We had a meal together about noon, then she went out. She didn’t say where she was going or when she’d be back, but that’s not unusual either. I was working pretty hard, I didn’t notice the time passing.”
“Had she talked of going to see Framm?”
“Never a hint. She hated him.”
“I wouldn’t tell them that at the police station.”
“No, of course not. What would you tell them?”
“As little as possible…. But you might as well be frank with me. Did you have a quarrel with her before she went out?”
“No. Just the regular argument about the lawsuit, she was still urging me to start one; but it’s hardly an argument any more, it’s a sort of wall between us and we push our heads against it now and again just to see if it’s still there…. But for her to do a thing like this…. I can’t imagine it. She’s not the type.”
“The crime isn’t a typed one either.”
He rocked his head in his hands. “I still can’t imagine it. She was so quiet, so … so discreet. Never lost her temper. Of course she liked to get her own way—who doesn’t? But violence … it’s unthinkable….”
“But it’s happened,” I said, “and you must pull yourself together.”
“I’ve got to help her,” he kept saying.
At the police station they wouldn’t even let
him see her, but they took particulars about both of us and forbade us to leave the city. The police attitude seemed confused as well as worried—as if they expected blame to attach to them for what had happened and must therefore make haste to blame others equally guiltless. I think most of their hostile manner was due to that; it showed itself in a trifling fuss because we had broken the rule that whenever an alien visits a police station for any purpose whatsoever he must bring along a passport for identification. Behind this nonsense one could sense the political winds rising; everyone seemed preoccupied with more than the thing itself.
After the police let us go I intended to take Brad to see Bauer (which I already felt I should have done first of all), but he said immediately: “Now let’s go to the hospital.”
I suppose I must have been concentrating on one thing all the time, because I answered blankly: “Hospital? What hospital?”
“The Margareten—that’s where the papers say they took him.”
Then I realized what he was talking about. Beyond any surprise I felt, I had the fear that we should miss Bauer at his office if we didn’t get there soon.
“They probably won’t let you see him,” I said.
“But I’d like to find out how he is.”
“They may not know yet. Perhaps he’s unconscious.”
“Then I could leave a message—”
“A message?”
He said irritably: “Dammit, what else can I do? Your wife flies into a temper and stabs a man you’ve been working with for over a year—surely you ought to say something … or don’t you think so?”
I hadn’t thought out the problem at all till he mentioned it, which establishes, perhaps, a gulf between his mind and mine. But I could see the minutes slipping by; if Bauer left his office we might not be able to see him till the morning, and the loss of a day might be important. “Let’s go to the lawyer first,” I said. “We can call at the hospital later. There’ll be all evening for it.”