Thomas nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“The articles will be wired to every major newspaper from coast to coast, Ollenburger. Do you understand the importance of careful editing?”
Thomas rose, holding the stack of pages in front of him like a shield. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Instead of using the elevator, he took the enclosed stairway to the third floor. Curious, he glanced at the scribbled text. A quote opened the first editorial: “Men and women are what they are largely because of the stock from which they sprang.” The statement instantly grabbed Thomas’s attention, and he plodded slowly through the pages, reading each word with care. By the time he reached his office, he’d finished the first of the three drafts.
In his office, he removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair before sitting. He leaned his elbows on either side of the second draft and carefully read each word for clarity.
So-called “equality” leads to societal chaos. Our standing as a world leader is threatened by the acceptance of inferior races as “equal” to those who founded this country. . . .
A sick feeling flooded his stomach. Even a farm boy like himself caught the meaning. His hands shook. He dropped the sheets, rose, and paced the office. Severt’s face—stern and intense—appeared in Thomas’s memory. The man trusted him. He must complete the task.
Swiping sweat from his forehead, Thomas sank into his chair and reread each draft in turn. At the final sentence in the third draft—Only one candidate will return this nation to its proper balance: Thomas Watson!—Thomas slumped against the back of his chair.
No, there had to be some mistake! Whispering a silent, hopeful plea that he would discover he’d misinterpreted Severt’s intention, he leaned over the drafts once more. His reading complete, he put his head in his hands. Never in all of his conversations with his boss had he guessed such ugly ideas lurked in the man’s heart. Never at the campaign headquarters had he picked up any inkling of Watson’s intention to lord one race over another.
He pushed away from the desk and snatched up his jacket. A celluloid button with an attached red, white, and blue ribbon was pinned to the left lapel. He read aloud the simple message arched above the black-and-white drawing of Watson’s profile on the button. “Watson—Candidate of Choice.” He’d believed that by campaigning for Watson he was benefiting his father and all other common men in the agricultural business. But now?
He unpinned the button, dropped it in a desk drawer, and then slipped his arms into his jacket. Severt expected a response by the end of the day concerning the comprehension of his drafts. Before Thomas could address his boss, he needed to speak to someone at headquarters about Watson. And about Severt.
19
DAPHNE PRESSED THE SIX-INCH LENGTH of ribbon to the bottom edge of a Watson for President celluloid button and held it while she counted silently to ten. The glue soaked through the porous ribbon, dampening her fingertips, and she released a small whimper of irritation. After setting aside the finished button, she wiped her fingers on a rag lying next to the pile of cut ribbon on the table, then reached for another button from the small box at her elbow.
When Harry had asked her to come in and construct buttons for the final round of distribution, Daphne had eagerly agreed. Being in town meant being in closer proximity to Thomas. Sometimes Thomas dropped by the campaign headquarters on his noon break, and although he exercised great restraint when in public places, she always recognized the pleasure that lit his eyes when he spotted her. It wouldn’t be long, she was certain, and Thomas would ask Father for her hand in marriage.
Her fingers trembled at her bold thought, and she attached the ribbon at an angle rather than straight down. Harry, the perfectionist, would surely scold. Well, she decided with a shrug, maybe his dissatisfaction would lead to assigning her a less monotonous task. Yawning, she plopped the imperfect button in the completed stack while glancing toward the double doors leading to the sidewalk.
Her mouth still wide in the yawn, she nearly swallowed her tongue when the left door swung open and Thomas stepped through. Snapping her jaw shut, she leaped from her chair and placed her back to him, frantically fluffing her wrinkled skirt. She scowled at the glue splotches dotting the pale green, but there was no cure for it now. Perhaps if she smiled brightly enough, he wouldn’t notice.
With a deep breath, she fixed her face into a welcoming smile and spun around. But her shoulders deflated. Rather than approaching her table, Thomas had joined two men at a desk in the far corner of the room. With a small stomp of one slippered foot against the polished wood floor, she plunked her hands on her hips. For several seconds she stewed, waiting for Thomas to turn and notice her. When he didn’t, she huffed in frustration and charged across the room to his side.
She arrived in time to hear him say, “ . . . makes no sense to me. Before I continue with this campaign, I need to understand Watson’s position.”
“Position on what?” Daphne tugged at Thomas’s arm.
Thomas removed her hands with a slight frown. “Daphne, go sit down, please. I’ll talk to you when I’m finished here.”
Had he ever spoken to her so abruptly? Rebuffed, she took two backward steps, her face filling with heat. “A-all right. Fine.” She hurried back to the table. With each step, her indignation grew. Why, he had just treated her as Father always did—as if she didn’t have enough sense to engage in meaningful conversation!
She sat, staring across the room at Thomas. He ran his hand over his hair, leaning close to the other two men, his arms flying out in gestures of agitation. Something certainly had him in a dither. Observing his uncharacteristic display, her heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm. She would overlook his rude treatment given his obvious state of anxiety, but she intended to make sure this dismissal of her presence was a one-time occurrence.
It seemed hours passed as she watched, waiting, before the other two campaigners returned to their posts, leaving Thomas alone. He stood for long moments, his head down, hands thrust deep into his pockets—the perfect pose of dejection. Daphne considered going to him, but his previous command held her squirming in her seat.
At last he lifted his head, his shoulders heaving in a mighty sigh, and then he turned and crossed the room to her table. He sat heavily across from her and lifted one of the beribboned buttons from the stack. “Watson, indeed . . .”
Despite herself, Daphne giggled. At his scowl, she mimicked, “Watson, indeed . . . For a moment, I felt as though I were in Mrs. Steadman’s parlor, listening to her harangue you about the campaign.”
A knowing grin twitched at Thomas’s cheeks. “Yes. Well. It seems Nadine was right all along.”
Daphne tipped her head. “Oh? About what?”
“About Watson.” Thomas propped his elbows on the table edge, his head slung low. He looked so sad, Daphne reached across the table to take his hand. He glanced at her with surprise in his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. “She told me to look beneath the surface to the truth of who Watson was, and I thought I had. But I see now I was wrong. Very wrong.”
“About what were you wrong?” To her delight, Thomas curled his fingers around her hand. The warmth of his palm pressed to hers made her heart flutter.
“Watson’s character. And—” Suddenly his neck blotched with color and he jerked his hand free.
Daphne’s heart sank. “Thomas?”
For long moments he stared at her. An intense fire burned in his eyes, deepening the color to a stormy blue. Alarm created an unpleasant taste on the back of Daphne’s tongue. What thoughts lurked behind his dark gaze?
When he spoke, the words were uttered in a hoarse whisper that told clearly of inner torment. “Daphne, Watson believes in separation of the races.”
Daphne stared at him, unblinking, for a few startled seconds, waiting for him to add to the simple comment. When no other concerns were voiced, she nearly laughed with relief. “Why, Thomas, is that what has you upset? To think I feared something dreadful had occurred!”
He shook his head, frowning. “Something dreadful has occurred. I’ve been campaigning for a man whose values I—” His face twisted into an expression of loathing. “To consider one man of more value than another just because of his skin color . . .”
Daphne placed her hand over Thomas’s wrist and squeezed gently. His pulse pounded beneath her fingers. He had worked himself into a fine state. She slipped her hand beneath his, gratified when he responded by clasping her fingers. In a soothing tone, she said, “Well, someone has to be in control, Thomas. Surely you see the sensibility of retaining a hierarchy of social levels.”
Thomas seemed to freeze, his hand within hers stiffening. The color in his neck rose higher, and his nostrils flared with a great intake of breath. “Are you suggesting a return to slavery?”
She squeezed hard on his hand. “Of course not slavery. Men should be paid a fair wage for their service, but allowing them to be in positions of authority over us—”
“Them?” Thomas yanked his hand from her grasp, his tone cold. “Meaning colored people?”
“In this case.” Daphne held out her hands. “Thomas, pray tell, what is the problem here?”
Thomas turned away, staring across the room at the bustle of activity, yet seeming to look past it. The muscles in his jaw twitched. As the color drained from his face, it seemed to take his energy with it. He slumped in his chair. When he faced her again, the cool recrimination in his eyes made her feel as though she were looking into the face of a stranger.
“Your father holds the same beliefs as Watson—that colored people are inferior to white people.”
Slowly, Daphne nodded, her breath held so tightly her chest ached.
“And you—do you agree with that view?”
Daphne’s lips parted, her breath escaping. She rubbed her dry lips together before answering. “Is the view I hold of importance to you?” A part of her hoped her view held great importance— that Thomas truly cared about what she thought. Father certainly didn’t put much stock in anything she said.
“Your view is very important. I need to know.”
“Then . . .” She lifted her chin in an attempt to appear confident when underneath she quivered with apprehension. “I believe Father is right. There is a need for social hierarchy, and the highest positions of hierarchy rightfully belong to white men of means.”
“White men of means have superiority.” Thomas stated it bluntly, as if seeking her confirmation. His emotionless tone gave her the courage to press on.
“Yes.”
“Over colored people.”
“Of course.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “You said ‘of means.’ Does that mean white men of lesser financial wealth hold lesser value?”
Daphne exploded with a huff of displeasure. Why was he creating such an issue over something so inconsequential? “Yes. Father is highly educated, wealthy, a man of influence. That entitles him to leadership. Superiority, as you put it.”
In the same even, detached voice, he said, “So your father, with his money and education, is better than my father, who has no more than a basic education and little wealth.”
Daphne winced. “Well, when stated in that manner, it sounds uncivilized, but in truth . . . yes. My father is better than your father.”
Although Thomas spoke calmly and impassively, fiery splotches decorated his neck, indicating strong emotion. “There is no finer man than my father.”
Daphne hid her smile. He sounded like a recalcitrant child issuing a challenge in the schoolyard. Teasingly, she said, “And if you were to ask Harry, he would say the same thing about our father.” She waited, but no answering grin came in reply. With a sigh, she said, “I understand your strong feelings. Yet you must see that, in many ways, my father is superior to yours. Perhaps not in a moral or personal sense, but most certainly in a social sense.”
“And me?”
The clipped question took Daphne by surprise. “What about you?”
“Are you better than me?”
Heat built in Daphne’s cheeks. “W-why, of course not! You . . . you’re every bit as educated as Harry, and—”
“But I grew up in a little town, raised by an uneducated miller who still struggles with the English language. I don’t have endless wealth and likely never will. You were raised in Boston by a man of great financial means. Socially, are you superior to me?”
Daphne didn’t care at all for the route the conversation had taken. “Now you’re being insulting.”
He waved his hand, dismissing her feeble attempt at redirection. “I want an answer, Daphne.” Thomas leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “Just this morning your father reminded me of my humble upbringing. So tell me . . . Am I less than you because I grew up on the prairie of Kansas rather than in a big city? Am I less than you because my father doesn’t have much money? Am I less than you because—”
“Thomas, please! You are scaring me.” Daphne blinked rapidly as tears flooded her eyes. “Why are you treating me in this manner?”
Though no thought of manipulation had prefaced her reaction, she realized by Thomas’s response to her tears that she’d chosen the right tactic. He sat back in his chair, his stern face relaxing into an expression of remorse. He opened his fists and reached for her. After a moment’s hesitation, she offered her hands, and he clasped them gently, sweetly, the way she had come to expect.
“I’m not angry with you, Daphne.” The tender timbre of his deep voice let her know her Thomas had returned. “But I’m angry at myself for being so blind.”
Confusion struck again. Before she could question him, he continued in a sad, resigned tone that chilled her even more than his fury of moments ago.
“You see, Nadine tried to warn me. But I wouldn’t listen to her. I ignored my own conscience, too. But I can’t ignore—” He lowered his head, drawing in a breath that raised his shoulders. His fingers tightened around hers, and he raised their joined hands, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Then, abruptly, he let go, almost as if he’d found her taste unpleasant. A chill of abandonment briefly shook her frame.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake, Daphne. And somehow I must right it. The first step is to”—he rose, taking a physical step back-ward—“ distance myself from you. You . . . are . . . far too distracting. You keep me from seeing what’s right. As for the next steps . . .” He swallowed, causing his Adam’s apple to bob. “I must return to the office. Good-bye, Daphne.”
He strode away, leaving her bewildered and sorrowful. “Good-bye, Daphne.” The words resonated in her head. He’d said them dozens of times before, at each leave-taking—yet today they held something new. Something final. This good-bye, she realized, was meant to be a permanent one.
20
THOMAS BYPASSED THE ELEVATOR and used the staircase to return to his office. The stale air in the enclosed concrete stairway felt heavy and dead, and by the time he’d completed the first flight, his chest ached. But, he conceded, the ache might have more than one source.
Conflicting emotions coursed through him, almost making him collapse. Had he really considered marrying someone whose ideals and values so opposed his own? Why hadn’t he seen, as Nadine had instructed, beneath Daphne’s surface? Today, listening to her spout the nonsense about one man being of greater value than another, she had appeared . . . ugly.
Didn’t the Bible he’d read from childhood indicate God was no respecter of persons? That slave was equal to master, servant no less than his employer? Even the Jews and Gentiles were declared the same in God’s eyes. And if God viewed all men equally, what right did men have to place one race as inferior to another?
Mr. Lincoln—one of the greatest men to ever live, Pa claimed— had declared all men equal. All men. A battle had been fought to unite the country in this belief. Equality. Freedom. His own people, the Mennonites, had come to America for those very ideals! Pa called the United States of America the land of opportunity— freedom to live, work, and worship a
s each man saw fit. Here, in the land of opportunity, there was no place for the social hierarchy that existed in other countries.
With a great intake of breath, Thomas forced himself to complete the second flight of stairs, and with each upward step, his conviction grew. He might not be as rich, powerful, or educated as some, but thanks to the upbringing of a simple miller, he knew right from wrong. Social hierarchy—holding one man in lordship over another—was wrong.
Rounding the corner for the final flight, his fingers curled tightly over the metal handrail, he paused. A part of him longed to cry out for comfort, for peace, for help—but the words remained at bay. Why ask God for help now when he hadn’t consulted Him in any of the decisions that led to his discovery of Watson’s and Daphne’s character?
No, this problem he would need to solve for himself. Pa always said, “If a mess you make, son, clean it up.” So Thomas would clean it up. He stepped out of the stairway and gulped the fresher air, eager to clear his lungs. Standing in the hallway, allowing his heartbeat to return to normal after his long climb, he considered the task ahead.
Mr. Severt wanted Thomas’s feedback on the editorials. Well, Severt would get feedback . . . and something more.
Belinda watched as Summer Ollenburger paused in scrubbing her daughter’s dress on the washboard and lifted her shoulder to push the hair from her eyes. “Have you heard from Thomas recently?” Summer asked.
Belinda wrung the excess water from a towel, gave it a brisk snap, then clipped it to the clothesline. The task completed, she faced her neighbor and forced the painful answer. “No, ma’am. It has been several weeks.”
Frowning, Frau Ollenburger turned her attention back to the dress. She scrubbed with more force than Belinda believed necessary, considering she held one of Lena’s small frocks rather than one of Herr Ollenburger’s work shirts. “I hoped you had. He hasn’t written to us, either. Gussie got a brief note, which she shared with all of us, but since then . . . I’m concerned about him. I haven’t even heard from Nadine.”
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