by Allen Drury
“You have asked us so many questions like that in recent years,” Senator Fry said, “that you have got us asking ourselves; and we have asked ourselves so much that sometimes I think we have forgotten how to do anything but question ourselves in one vast paralysis of self-doubt. There are times when men shouldn’t ask questions, they should just go ahead and do what they know is right, or the chance is lost. But first our enemies, and now our friends, have told us we must question ourselves on everything we do; we must sit around and debate with each other instead of acting; and so while we have debated, others have acted, and often the chance has gone. Or does that seem a too one-sided view to you?”
The Indian Ambassador too looked down thoughtfully upon the pleasant land as it rushed away, and shrugged.
“Who knows,” he said, “whether those chances should have been taken or whether history will say that it was best for you to miss them, and so best that you should have asked and argued and talked and debated instead of doing something rash and precipitate that might have changed your course in a way that could not be modified? Perhaps it has saved you from commitments that would have brought you down, and with you the world.”
“So what has it left us to be committed to?” Hal Fry asked moodily. “Anything? That is the American problem right now, it seems to me: we aren’t committed, and we don’t really care, about anything. Our enemies and our friends together have succeeded in paralyzing us with self-doubt, and under the tutelage of all of you we have become afraid to really care, because to really care has become unfashionable and rather laughable; and also, of course, because to really care would impose upon us the necessity of acting in support of the things we really care for; and nobody wants us to do that anymore. We don’t even want to do it ourselves....So what purpose do we serve in the world any more, in your mind? Any?”
“Oh, Hal,” the Indian Ambassador exclaimed impatiently. “What purpose do you serve! Why do you say fantastic things like that?”
“Well,” Senator Fry said, “it seems the only logical conclusion, doesn’t it?”
“It does not,” Krishna Khaleel said firmly, “and you don’t believe for one moment that it does, either.”
“Then what is it?” Hal Fry persisted; and after a moment his companion laughed.
“Always joking,” he said comfortably. “Dear old Hal. Tell me, do you not think Mr. Leffingwell will have some answers that will reassure even you, my dark, gloomy friend?”
Senator Fry gave him an appraising glance and suddenly he relaxed and laughed, too.
“Dear old Akbar,” he said mockingly. “Always joking too, I suspect, and somehow, I suspect, always at the expense of the United States of America. To answer your question, all I can say is, I hope so.”
“We hope so too,” Krishna Khaleel said. “In fact, we are confident of it. So all the dark worries and doubts are rather foolish, are they not?”
“We have a saying,” Senator Fry said, “that it won’t matter in a hundred years.”
“There, you see?” K.K. cried triumphantly. “Now you begin to regard it as we do!”
Below Maryland sped away, the flat gray roofs and white stone stoops of Baltimore, the pleasant enclave of Havre de Grace beside the Susquehanna, the kindly, gentle, greening land.
“Mr. Chairman,” John DeWilton said, “I shall also try to be brief, if the witness will co-operate.”
“Gladly, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell replied with a smile. “This is six to one, you know; I’m as anxious to speed it along as you are!”
“I’d say the one has done pretty well so far,” Senator DeWilton observed. The nominee laughed, against the comforting background of friendly laughter from the room.
“A little bloody, but unbowed, Senator,” he said.
“I too,” Johnny DeWilton said, quickly becoming all pink-faced, white-topped business, “would like to advert to your recent speeches. I believe you said in Des Moines two weeks ago that the Soviet Government, and I quote, ‘now gives evidence of an earnest desire to negotiate in good faith.’ I wonder if you could cite one specific piece of evidence to back up that assertion, Mr. Leffingwell.”
The nominee smiled again and gave again his candid, ingratiating shrug and gesture with his opened hands.
“Senator,” he said, and stopped to start anew with the thoughtful pause that lent so many of his words their little extra impact. “How shall I answer you? Of signed commitments and formal promises, no; there are none of these. Of an attitude of greater willingness and understanding, of a friendlier aspect toward the West and toward us in particular, yes, I think I do see signs. Certainly there is every evidence of their desire to negotiate with us; almost daily they urge it upon us; I think some candor must underlie such diligent appeals.”
“You think so,” Senator DeWilton said. “But again you cite a belief when you were asked for specifics. I still would like to know what basis we have for trusting them. They have urged negotiations before; we have met them and offered them much and they haven’t conceded a thing. What is to be gained by another charade like that?”
“Well, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said, “as long as you have charades you don’t have war.”
The audience stirred with a little tentative applause and the Senator from Vermont looked up with annoyance.
“I say again, Mr. Leffingwell,” he said, “that is no answer to my question. You are nominated here for perhaps the most important office next to that of the President himself, insofar as our foreign affairs are concerned, and we want from you some specific indications about things. If you are going to rush off and confer with the Russians in a rosy glow just because they say come hither, I’m very much afraid you’re not going to either defend your country’s interests or bring world peace any closer or prevent that war you had rather talk about than tell us what you think.”
The nominee flushed and for a moment looked openly annoyed. But when he spoke it was in the same reasonable, patient tone.
“Senator,” he said, “it is, if you like, a matter of belief; perhaps I might say a matter of faith. A faith that reasonable men prefer peace to destruction; that they will greet one another in that spirit; that they will reason together and compromise their differences and work out agreements in the light of the overriding knowledge that if they fail the world goes. A man has to believe something, Senator, and that is what I believe. I cannot separate it from beliefs, for it goes beyond mere surface appearances and the dismal record of past misunderstandings. It urges a fresh start, a new leaf, a page upon which the finger of history has yet to trace its message. I call for a message of hope upon that page, Senator. I call for a future bright with hope, toward which we may move nobly and steadfastly as becomes us.”
Again there was a stirring of applause, and Senator DeWilton shook his head again in an annoyed way.
“You’re a great man for words, Mr. Leffingwell,” he said. “You seem to think they can absolve you from answering questions.”
“My God,” the Newark News whispered disgustedly. “What else does the old fool want from him?” “Seems to me he’s answered very well,” the Philadelphia Inquirer agreed.
“No, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said. “I don’t think they can absolve me, as you put it, from anything. Nor have I attempted to evade questions or issues here. I think I have met them head on in every instance, and have answered them as fully and honestly as I know how.”
The Senator from Vermont looked at him intently.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll try you once more, and then I’m through, Mr. Chairman. Can you give me one specific proof, Mr. Witness, that the Russians intend to negotiate with us in good faith if there is new attempt made, any more than they did at the last conference, or the one before that, or the one before that, or any other you care to name?”
The nominee smiled with a certain amiably helpless air.
“Senator,” he said deprecatingly, “you cover so much ground. The last conference? I believe they
said they would agree to consider the advisability of working out a graduated disarmament. The one before that? My memory is that they pledged before the world their devotion to the principles of peace and justice for all peoples. I don’t quite know what you expect of them, Senator.”
“And those were what you call real concessions?” John DeWilton asked in a disbelieving tone.
“I do,” Bob Leffingwell said. “In the light of their past record, Senator.”
“You really do?” Senator DeWilton repeated in the same tone.
“I do,” the nominee repeated firmly. Then he leaned forward earnestly.
“Oh, Senator,” he said fervently. “Don’t let us lose sight of the great objective in a mist of petty detail. Don’t let us permit the angry past to betray the promise of the hopeful future. Mankind deserves so much more of us, Senator. Let us justify its hope and not cast it down in fruitless carping and the pointless tale of rehashed wrongs and imagined grievances.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Leffingwell,” John DeWilton said in an ironic tone, “If you were a Nazi, say, or a die-hard reactionary, or a labor-baiter or somebody else like that whom the press doesn’t like and doesn’t play up all over the country with a lot of hero worship the way it does you, you’d be charged with evasion and duplicity and double talk and every other kind of nasty thing that could be thought of to say about you. But since you’re you, I dare say all this is being swallowed wholesale without a second thought as to what you’re actually doing here. I suppose there are millions of people watching you right now who aren’t getting it at all, just because they’re so conditioned to think of you in terms of noble words and ringing phrases like you’ve put on display here. But I get it, Mr. Witness. I tell you you’re avoiding the questions of this subcommittee, the legitimate questions to which the Senate of the United States has every right to have answers from the man it is asked to give the office of Secretary of State to. I don’t know why you’re doing it, but you’re certainly doing it. And it’s just about decided me to vote against you, I tell you that frankly.”
There was an audible hiss from somewhere in the room, and for the first time Bob Leffingwell looked genuinely angry, a certain waspish, feline look that sat strangely upon his handsome, dignified face; and for a moment it appeared that he would voice his anger. Before he could, however, Seab Cooley spoke softly from down the table.
“My opinion, Mr. Chairman,” he said slowly, “is that this witness doesn’t know any more about the Russians than he does about Mr. Herbert Gelman. No, sir. He just doesn’t know any more about them than he does about Mr. Herbert Gelman.”
Then Bob Leffingwell did speak out, in a tone of rising anger.
“Mr. Chairman,” he demanded, “how much longer am I to be subjected to this persecution? I have answered to the best of my ability every question put to me here, and I am accused of being evasive and engaging in double talk. I have expressed the hope and the aspirations of, I believe, the overwhelming majority of our countrymen, and I am told I am unfit to be their Secretary of State. And now I am subjected to petty harassment by the Senator from South Carolina, who hasn’t had an original word to say on the subject of our differences in the past ten years. I demand of you how much longer I must tolerate this kind of pettifoggery?”
At this a loud burst of applause swept across the room, and Brigham Anderson banged the gavel repeatedly with a vigor that did not, however, stop it for well over a minute. As it began to die away, Seab had the last word.
“Yes, sir,” he said impassively, as if to himself. “The Russians and Mr. Herbert Gelman. They’re both mysteries to this man.”
“Very well, Senator,” Brigham Anderson said shortly. “I’d suggest we all calm down here. I can understand the witness’ impatience in the face of a long and exhaustive interrogation; I can also, I must tell him candidly, understand something of the bafflement, disappointment, and annoyance with which many of his answers have been received by the subcommittee. But it is true, as the Senator from Vermont says, that millions of his countrymen are watching these proceedings; and they will make their judgment, as we must make ours in the immediate matter of his confirmation. The morning is getting on, there is a session of the Senate we all wish to attend at noon, I am the only member remaining to question, and I really will be brief. I would suggest again, therefore as I said, that we all calm down. Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Leffingwell?”
By the time he finished speaking the nominee had regained his self-possessed composure and was waiting to answer with a friendly smile on his lips and a friendly expression in his eyes.
“Quite, Mr. Chairman,” he said. “I’m sorry if I let the accumulated tensions of the morning explode. Being a witness before a Congressional committee is not an easy task under the best of circumstances, and while I am genuinely grateful for your own kindness and fairness, Mr. Chairman, there have been moments, we all recognize, when these have not been the best of circumstances. However,” he went on as the room rippled with appreciative laughter, “I think I can stand it for a while longer in good spirit, and will continue to do my best to be candid and honest with the subcommittee on these great matters which so vitally concern us all....Perhaps, Mr. Chairman,” he added thoughtfully, “my views are in part directed by the overwhelming desire I have seemed to find everywhere I have spoken in recent weeks, for some accommodation with the Russians, some attempt to get along with them, some attempt to remove from the world this ominous cloud that hangs over us all. For the first time, I think, there is a real and genuine anxiety in this country, as there long has been in other countries, for such an accommodation.” And quite without warning he suddenly switched his remarks in a new direction. “I believe your distinguished colleague whom I see sitting behind you there, Senator Van Ackerman, found this to be true in his great speech in New York last week,” he said with a flattering smile.
Fred Van Ackerman looked startled and pleased, and replied in a loud and breezy and curiously defiant voice.
“I did,” he said. “That’s right. May I say, Mr. Chairman, the witness has been doing a magnificent job here, in the opinion of the junior Senator from Wyoming, and I am sure it is he and his like who will lead us out of our present situation to lasting peace.”
“Thank you, Senator,” Brigham Anderson said rather shortly. “We appreciate your comments, as I’m sure Mr. Leffingwell does, too. Senator DeWil—”
“I do indeed,” Bob Leffingwell interrupted smoothly. “It is Senators of the caliber of the distinguished junior Senator from Wyoming who will help me in that effort, I assure him.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Secretary,” Fred Van Ackerman said. “I really appreciate it.”
“Yes,” Senator Anderson said. “Would the Senator care to join the subcommittee at the table?”
“No, thanks, Brig,” Senator Van Ackerman said. “I’ll just stay here and be an observer.”
“The Chair had the impression you were becoming a participant, which is why he asked,” Senator Anderson said, meaning to joke but unfortunately sounding a little sharper than he had intended. A strange expression came into Senator Van Ackerman’s eyes.
“Why are you trying to choke me off, Brig?” he demanded in a loudly angry tone, and the tension in the room immediately shot up. Brigham Anderson swung half around in his chair to stare at him for a second.
“Not my intention, Fred,” he said informally, and after a moment Senator Van Ackerman shrugged and seemed to lose interest at once.
“Okay,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Senator DeWilton,” the chairman said, turning back with a thoughtful expression.
“Well, Mr. Chairman,” Johnny DeWilton said, “I’m through. I just want to say, though, that this strikes me as peculiar. The witness has explained everything except what I asked him to explain and he has been applauded for it repeatedly in spite of your ruling about demonstrations. Don’t people really understand what is going on here?”
“They unde
rstand,” the Detroit News whispered savagely, “that’s why they’re applauding Leffingwell, you stupid old fathead.” “Johnny just doesn’t get the picture,” the St. Louis Post-Dispatch remarked.
“Everyone is free to judge for himself, Senator,” Brigham Anderson said. “The Chair intends to question the witness briefly now, and then I think the subcommittee can stand in recess until ten o’clock tomorrow morning, at which time, Mr. Leffingwell, we shall turn you over to the tender mercies of the Senator from South Carolina.”
The nominee laughed.
“I’ll get a good night’s rest, Mr. Chairman,” he promised, and gave Senator Cooley a direct and confident glance. “After all,” he added, buoyed by the knowledge that the crowd was with him fully, “if all he has to offer is a non-existent witness, I dare say I can survive him pretty well!”
A wave of appreciative laughter swept the room, and when all eyes swung to Seab it was observed that he was laughing too, in his sleepy, veiled-eyed way. This was taken to be a good omen by the nominee and his friends, a note of possible cordiality or at least a not too embittered animosity, and the atmosphere became more relaxed. Senator Anderson, who knew his man, was not fooled but reflected that the nominee was on his own and it wasn’t his business to advise him. Instead he spoke in a reasoned tone as the laughter once again died away.
“I should just like to sum up your testimony this morning and put it in perspective, if I can, and see if you agree with my estimate of it,” he said pleasantly. “First and foremost you are, I take it, opposed to war, particularly to what is generally termed preventive war, under any and all circumstances.”
The nominee hesitated, then nodded.
“In essence that is correct, Senator,” he said.
“And you are thereby on this record and in this public hearing which is literally being carried to the ends of the earth, including Moscow, renouncing war as an instrument of national policy of the United States under any and all circumstances.”