VII
The Graf Stubendorf whom Lanny had seen had died since the war, and his oldest son ruled in his stead: a stiff Prussian general, of whom everybody said that he had a very high sense of duty, but nobody said he loved him. As his father had done, he greeted and shook hands with all the tenants and retainers gathered in the great hall of the Schloss; he was lacking in his father’s geniality, but perhaps that could be excused because the times were so dangerous and the need of discipline so obvious. It was hard indeed for an army officer whose home had been turned over to despised enemies to talk about loving them for even one week.
As before, Herr Meissner spoke freely in the bosom of his family about the affairs of Stubendorf and what the Graf had imparted to him about political affairs. Lanny thought it could do no harm after so many years, so he narrated how on his way home from his previous visit he had been accosted in the railroad station by the editor of a Social-Democratic newspaper, who had lured him into talking indiscreetly about what he had heard at the Schloss. Lanny said that he had often wondered whether the man had published anything, and the Comptroller-General replied that he did remember an article published in the Arbeiterzeitung which had puzzled them all greatly, though it had never occurred to them to connect their American visitor with it. Lanny assured his host that he had now attained to years of discretion, so there was no possibility of such a blunder being repeated.
Herr Meissner had somewhat altered his views. The Socialists were now comparatively respectable people with whom one was compelled, however reluctantly, to do business. Their place as public enemies had been taken by the Communists, who were plotting a revolution on the Russian model and therefore had to be regarded as wild beasts. The Socialists, no matter how unsound their ideas, at least believed in law and order and were willing to wait until they had converted a majority of the people to vote their way; meanwhile their help was urgently needed against the Bolshevik menance.
Eight years before, Lanny had sat and listened in silence to what the Comptroller-General told his family; but now he knew much that was of interest to all of them, and Herr Meissner asked him about the Peace Conference and the decisions it had taken concerning their homeland. Lanny outlined some of the discussions to which he had been an auditor. In return the host explained the attitude of the people here and made no effort to conceal the fact that no German had any idea of accepting the settlement as more than a breathing-space.
“The French won the war,” said Meissner, “and we are willing to accept that, and to forgive and forget. It has happened before, and can happen again. But what has never happened is that a nation should be loaded down with a debt so out of all reason that every child knows it is not a real claim, but an effort to make it impossible for us to regain our trade and prosperity. To resist that is a fight for survival, and the people who do it to us choose to be our permanent enemies.”
Lanny was there to learn and not to argue. He did not tell his host what he had heard Denis de Bruyne saying to his father, nor did he quote George D. Herron’s analysis of the German mind. He listened to a detailed story of how the French had plotted to defeat the purposes of the Supreme Allied Council in Upper Silesia. Their army had not merely failed to play fair in the carrying out of the plebiscite decision; they had openly encouraged Korfanty and his sokols, the Polish patriot bands. They had allowed some four hundred Polish officers to come in and join these bands and they had permitted gunrunning everywhere throughout the land. Here in Stubendorf Polish peasants had been freely recruited, and if information about this was turned over to the French army authorities they did nothing whatever. Said Meissner: “They had the same idea as in the Rhineland, that if a revolution could be accomplished, the Supreme Council would be compelled to recognize it.”
The Comptroller-General went on to explain that since the British troops had come in things had been more tolerable. “We have the land, and the Poles can’t do us much harm with their taxes, because their money goes down so fast that by the time the taxes are due they aren’t so big as they were meant to be. They are still less when the government spends them!” The speaker smiled rather slyly, and added that the Berlin government had accepted the settlement because it had to, but no German in Stubendorf would rest until he and his property were back under the sheltering wings of the Fatherland. “Life means nothing to us otherwise,” he said, and authorized Lanny to tell that to all the French and British people he met.
VIII
Kurt had a duty to perform, to visit his sick brother, who was in a private hospital. He said he wouldn’t invite Lanny, because it would probably be a painful experience. The brother was in the care of a physician, an old friend of the family; when Lanny learned that the place was in Poland proper, he suggested going along and seeing a bit of the town while Kurt paid his visit. Kurt replied that there wouldn’t be much to see, but he’d be glad to have company on a tiresome trip.
They rode on the branch line to the junction and then on another line, in another dilapidated day-coach. The town was in the war zone, and many of its ruins had not yet been touched. The hospital had one wing demolished, and rebuilding was going on. Lanny left his friend at the gate and set out to see Poland. Very few of the streets had any paving whatever; a few had board sidewalks, but many of the boards were missing. Though everything was covered by a blanket of fresh snow, deep ruts and hollows were visible, and one could imagine that travel would become difficult in springtime.
The center of the town was a market-square, with shops and drinking-places around it. Lanny looked in the windows and perceived that there was little merchandise on sale. Two sides of the square were lined with peasant carts. Country produce was set out, and ragged, hungry-looking people wandered by, stopping now and then to haggle. Many of these people were what are called “Water Poles”; of Slovak descent, they are accustomed to go into Germany as laborers, so they speak a mixture of German and Polish, and Lanny could understand a part of what they said. The peasants wore ragged sheepskin coats and heavy caps that could be pulled over the ears; they stamped their feet and beat their arms to keep warm. Lanny judged that in the matter of underwear they resembled the suicides of the Berlin canals. You could smell a single peasant several yards away in still air, and when you had a crowd of them the mucous membranes of your nose were assailed by a steady bombardment of the molecules of ammonia, so highly volatile.
Lanny wandered for a while, looking and listening, trying to imagine what it might be like to be a Polish peasant exchanging cabbages and turnips for greasy pieces of paper with Polish eagles and Arabic numerals on them. Everybody was polite to a magnificent Fremder in an elegant woolen overcoat, but few stared at him; they were too miserable and chilled for curiosity. Now and then a beggar followed, whining, but Lanny feared that if he gave to one he would be besieged. No doubt the peasants had the same fear, for they gave to nobody. Altogether Lanny’s impressions of the new Polish republic were unfavorable, and it seemed to him that Paderewski would have done better to stick to the concert stage, and he himself to stay at the Meissner home and play accompaniments to old German Lieder for two gentle young blond Nordic widows.
IX
Two or three times Lanny passed the hotel where he was to be met by Kurt. It was an unpromising-looking place, so he made up his mind to suggest that they go hungry for a while. Kurt was staying longer than he planned, and Lanny sought in vain for something that could be called picturesque; there was nothing like that in sight, and he wished he had brought a book along.
He had started to walk around the square to keep warm when he saw three soldiers, wearing faded and worn uniforms and carrying bayoneted rifles, enter from one of the streets, leading before them a man with hands tied behind his back. Lanny stopped to watch, and saw one of the soldiers go into a shop, while the other two led their prisoner under a large bare-limbed tree which grew in the square. They stood there, waiting, and presently the third man came out of the shop carrying a long and quite heavy rop
e; he rejoined the others and proceeded to toss one end of the rope up over a limb of the tree. “My God!” thought Lanny. “They are going to hang him!”
The son of Budd Gunmakers had had many odd experiences during his twenty-two years in a bewildering world, but this was the first time he had ever attended an execution. He looked about him and observed that peasants and townspeople made note of what was going on, but made it quickly, and then turned back to their own affairs. Could it be that they had seen so many people hanged that it was less important than the sale of cabbages and turnips? Or were they for some reason afraid to show any interest or feeling?
It didn’t occur to Lanny to be afraid. He was sure that Polish soldiers were not hanging anybody from the sweet land of liberty; and he had yet to meet any people in the world with whom he couldn’t get along. Perceiving that the job was going to be a quick one, he started to walk in that direction. As he neared the group he noted that the prisoner was a mere youth, and that he was ragged, pale, and depressed-looking, just like hundreds of others whom Lanny had been watching and smelling. The soldiers also appeared to have missed bathing and shaving for many days.
By the time Lanny reached the scene there was a noose about the neck of the prisoner, and the three men had hold of the other end. “Guten Tag,” said Lanny, with a pleasant smile, and added a magical word: “Amerikaner.” The Polish form happens to be “Amerykanin,” which was near enough.
The faces of the soldiers showed interest, and the leader, who might have been a corporal, said: “Guten Tag, Herrschaft.”
That was promising; he was a “Water Pole.” Possibly he might have labored in America, so Lanny inquired: “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”
“Nein, nein,” was the reply.
Lanny had never learned to smoke, but he had discovered that the practice offered a passport to friendship all over this war-torn continent, so while traveling he kept a package of cigarettes in his pocket. Now he drew it forth, tore it open, and held it out. The three soldiers, who had laid their guns against the tree, now hung the rope over their arms and reached out dirty fingers for the lovely little white cylinders which the Amerykanin tendered. Grins of pleasure wreathed their faces, and when Lanny produced matches and proceeded to light each in turn, they were sure that he was a royal personage.
It seemed a reasonable guess that no military regulations would be violated if a prisoner lived long enough to watch his captors smoke a cigarette. But the Herrschaft had even more original ideas than that. “Er, auch,” he said, and pointed a cigarette toward the prisoner. Then he indicated the bonds. “Los machen? Soll rauchen.”
Delightful humanity of the noble lord from the land of unlimited possibilities! It was the sort of thing to be expected from people who sent over mountains of food and kind lovely ladies to distribute it among starving women and children. The American millionaire desired that the poor devil should smoke a cigarette in order to give him courage to be hanged! The soldiers grinned with amusement. Why not?
X
So far the youthful captive had manifested no interest in what was going on; he had stood staring sullenly before him. Lanny saw that he had dark eyes and hollow cheeks, and that he was shivering, whether from cold or fright could not be guessed. Certainly a most miserable human specimen, and perhaps to put an end to him would be the greatest kindness. But seeing the doglike eyes turned upon him, Lanny paid tribute to their common humanity by inquiring: “Wollen Sie rauchen?”
Apparently the man didn’t know German; but what happened was plain in any language—the soldiers untied his hands, though keeping the rope on one wrist. Lanny extended a cigarette, and the prisoner took it and put it into his mouth. Lanny struck a match and lighted the cigarette. So there were four smokers, which meant four contented men for the time being. They smoked and inhaled deeply, giving every sign that it had been long since they had had such a chance.
The occasion called for conversation, and Lanny said: “Was hat der Kerl getan?” He pointed to the prisoner, and tried again: “Was ist los?”
“Kommunist,” explained the corporal.
“Ach, so!” Lanny was duly shocked.
“Ja, Bobchewist,” said the other.
“Aber,” said Lanny, “was hat er getan?” He repeated this in several variations, but it was too much for the soldier’s vocabulary, or possibly for his mind. Why ask what a Bolshevik had done? In order to be hanged, he didn’t have to “do” anything, he just had to be. Surely any Herrschaft in the world would understand that!
“Aber!” persisted the stubborn American. He wanted to find out if the man had had a trial; but this too was hard to put across. Lanny tried all the German words he could think of: Gericht, Richter, Untersuchung. Again he couldn’t be sure whether it was that Poles who went into Germany to labor for a few pfennigs a day never heard of such things, or whether the corporal couldn’t conceive of applying them to a Communist. Apparently if you met one of these you simply tied his hands behind his back and borrowed or rented a rope and strung him up to the nearest tree for a lesson to the others. From the movies Lanny had learned that this was the practice with horse-thieves in the wild and woolly West, and it appeared that he was now in the wild and woolly East.
He hit upon one word which apparently was well known: “Polizeiamt.” That seemed to worry the soldiers; their authority was being questioned, and by one who might himself have to do with the police. Lanny didn’t want to worry them too much, so he distributed four more cigarettes, and the badly handicapped talk continued.
For the first time the prisoner took part. Maybe it was the smoke that waked him up, or maybe it was hope at work in his soul. He spoke rapidly in Polish, and Lanny listened closely, for in border lands foreign words creep in and often one word tells the subject of a conversation. Lanny was sure that he heard the word “America”; and then, more than once, a familiar but unexpected pair of syllables: “Brooklyn!”
The corporal turned to Lanny, and in his broken German made plain what was in question. “He says he knows the Herrschaft. In America. A city, Broukleen.”
Lanny looked at the youth. Indubitably, there was the light of hope in his eyes; and for a moment it was obscured in one of them by the faintest trace of a wink. Lanny, who wasn’t slow on the intake, turned to the corporal. “Ja, gewiss. Ich kenn’ ihn.”
This threw the soldiers into obvious confusion. They began talking rapidly among themselves, and the prisoner joined them. The head man turned to Lanny again. “He says he is no Communist. He says the Herrschaft knows he is no Communist.”
“Ja, gewiss!” repeated Lanny. “I knew him in Brooklyn, America. Guter Kerl. Good fellow. Kein Kommunist. Kein Bolschewist.”
Why did Lanny say all that? If he had been asked the question then, he couldn’t have answered. Something welled up in him, quickly, unexplainably. Was it that he couldn’t bear to see a poor devil hanged? Was it that he didn’t believe in hanging anybody without a trial? Or was there some secret sympathy in his heart for the Communists? Had he come to the belief that, however they might be mistaken in their tactics, there was a share of justice in their cause? Since human motives are rarely simple, there may have been a bit of all these reasons in Lanny’s mind.
Anyhow, he still had two cigarettes in his precious package, and he offered these, wrapper and all, to the corporal. “Guter Kerl,” he repeated. Still keeping his amiable smile upon his face, he reached into his pocket and produced some talismans of still more potent magic; objects the existence of which had almost been forgotten in “half-Asia”—four silver coins, German marks about the size of a United States quarter, and having the double-headed Prussian eagle upon one face. With these miraculous little disks one could buy most anything in the land! Lanny handed one to each of the soldiers and was about to give the fourth to the prisoner, but reflected that they might hang him to get it, so he doubled the fee of the head man. “Guter Kerl! Mach’ los!” he said.
There could be no further argument. The rope was t
aken off the other hand and the prisoner was free. The prince of the American plutocracy shook the cold grimy hands of his three friends and said: “Danke schon,” “Leben Sie wohl,” “Adieu,” and all the other pleasant words he could think of.
“Die Herrschaft nehm’ mit?” said the corporal, indicating the prisoner; and Lanny said Ja, he would “take with,” but where he would take he had no idea—perhaps to Brooklyn, America!
That problem was quickly solved, however. Lanny strolled across the square with his prisoner, followed by many curious eyes. When they got into a side street, the still shivering youth exclaimed: “Dzieki tobie, panie,” which is Polish for “Thank you, sir,” and, without waiting for a silver coin or even for a handshake, darted behind a house and disappeared. Lanny wasn’t surprised or displeased, for he understood that the Brooklyn alibi mightn’t last very long, and he had no more cigarettes.
XI
When Lanny told his friend about that adventure Kurt couldn’t help being amused, but at the same time he was shocked to the deeps of his Prussian soul. “How could you have thought of such a thing?” he exclaimed.
“But I didn’t think of it,” chuckled the American. “The prisoner thought of it.”
“You didn’t know a thing about that fellow! He may have been a criminal, a most dangerous one.”
“It may be. On the other hand, he may be a poor devil who told some peasant that the landlords were robbers—which they doubtless are.”
Between Two Worlds Page 24