Herman Wouk - War and Remembrance

by War

  "Oh, darling, people don'tpropose nowadays." She waved a scornful hand. "Did you propose to Natalie?"

  "I did, in so many words."

  "Well, you're a weird old-fashioned type. All us Henrys are.

  Hugh's already working on hisdivorce."

  "He is?" Byron got up and paced on the pebbly dirt with loud crunches. "You should be talking to Dad."

  "Dad? Perish the thought. He'd visit Hugh with a horsewhip."

  "Is he divorcing his wife because of you?"

  "Oh, Claire, that's the wife, is just a horror, a total paranoid, a stupid woman he married when he was twenty-one. She's insanely afraid of losing him, yet she treats him like dirt. She's always running to psychoanalysts. She spends money like a duchess. Why, a year ago she was throwing fits about me, threatening I don't know what.

  He had to placate her with a sable coat. She is one unholy mess, Briny, take my word for it. And of course, she's turned his kids against him."

  "Listen to me. Call Universal today." He halted and stood over her.

  "Tell the fellow you'll go to work for him Monday."

  "I figured you'd say that." She looked up at him solemnly and her voice faltered. "I'm just not sure I can do it."

  Feeling a wave of sickened, poignant sympathy for his sister, Byron said, "It's serious."

  He spoke low. "How serious?"

  " I told you." Her voice turned testy. "It's not a matter for horsewhips and shotguns. But it's serious."

  He scanned her face, and heavily sighed. The gentle open look of the girl was as opaque as a leather mask. "How old is he?"

  "Thirty-four." She glanced at her watch. "Honey, you have to pick up Mom and meet us in the Warner Brothers commissary at noon.

  Let's finish our ride."

  "Maybe I'll talk to him at the studio."

  The pretty leather mask faintly suggested wistful relief.

  "You? Whatever about?"

  "About this."

  Her mouth curled. "Shotgun in hand, sweetie?"

  "No. If he wants to marry you, he should be glad to talk to "I can't stop you. Do as you please." She put her foot in the stirrup.

  "Give me a leg up, Briny, we're late."

  In the large, crowded, sunny cafeteria on the Warner Brothers lot, Rhoda gawked about, round-eyed, scarcely eating, saying things like, "Why, Maddy dear, isn't that Humphrey BOGART? -My stars, and there's Bette Davis! She looks so YOUNG off the screen."

  Hugh Cleveland explained that though the stars had their own posh dining rooms, they liked to drop into the commissary now and then for a sandwich and a glass of milk. Like the stars, Cleveland was lunching in a dressing gown, his face painted up for filming. Byron disliked him again at sight, but his whimsical rumblings and chucklings clearly amused Rhoda, and his sleek happy air of success impressed her.

  Two radio shows -the old Anwteur Hour and the military Happy Hour-were going strong, and the film shorts promised still more revenue.

  Madeline's hundred fifty a week was about twice Byron's submarine pay; and if she took the Universal offrr she would be out-earning her own father, the captain of a heavy cruiser.

  And for what? Watching the filming of a HaPpy Hour short after lunch, Byron was disgusted. The soldiers and sailors were the merest butts for Cleveland's supposedly spontaneous jokes, which were held up off camera on large printed placards. There was no audience. Later, Madeline explained, the director would splice -in shots of attentive, laughing, or applauding onlookers. BYron couldn't believe that the films would be entertaining even if the fraud came off-Nothing was there but a radio announcer with a calculated folksy manner, poking condescending fun at untalented kids in uniform. The sights and sounds of show business, however low-grade, obviously enchanted his mother, and he was glad she had this distraction from grief; but as for him, he yawned and yawned until his jaws hurt, in an agony of irritated tedium.

  A break came in the filming, and Cleveland approached them, grinning, with two paper cups of coffee. "You seem to need this more than I do, Admiral."

  Madeline bustled up. "Mom, Byron! Humphrey Bogart is shooting on the next sound stage now. Want to watch?"

  "Is it all right?" Rhoda asked eagerly.

  "Of course."

  "I'M DAZZLED by all this," Rhoda said, following her.

  Cleveland said to Byron, who didn't stir, "Not interested?"

  "Mr. Cleveland, can I talk to you?"

  "What's up?"

  "Madeline's told me about the Universal offer."

  "Oh ho. Come along." Byron went with him into a plywood dressing room, and they both sat down on chairs by a lamp-bordered mirror.

  "Byron, don't let her take that job."

  "Why not? It's more money."

  "Lenny Spreregen's a passable screenwriter, but he's no executive.

  He's fast-talked himself into this thing. He's a communist, what's more, a notorious one. He'll never last at Universal; and the day he goes-bye-bye Madeline, broke and alone in Hollywood."

  "She says you want to marry her."

  "Oh, wow!" With a warm beguiling grin, Cleveland rubbed fingers in his back hair. "By the way, call me Hugh, won't you?" He looked at a cheap alarm clock on the dresser, swallowed coffee, and humorously rumbled as he stood up, "But let's not open that can of peas during a coffee break, huh, Admiral? How long are you going to be here?"

  "My leave is up tonight." Byron rose, blocking the narrow doorway. It was a casual act, but meanwhile Cleveland couldn't go out.

  "She says you're getting divorced."

  Cleveland made a move toward the door, with a polite little gesture that Byron ignored. To leave he would have had to shove the submarine officer aside. His puffy face went sombre, then the charming grin with arched eyebrows reappeared. He rested a haunch on the dressing table, and rubbed his chin, looking quizzically at Byron's serious face.

  Rumpling his hair with both hands, he uttered a small groan.

  "Okay, Byron. Once over lightly, here goes. Claire, that's my wife, is a very unhappy and unfortunate woman. I'll say no more against her.

  We have three grand kids, but nothing else is left in common between us. Sexual interest is zero -not on my side. On hers.

  That's hell on earth, and I hope you never experience it. We've both been talking to lawyers, but these deals are messy and long. It's easy to get into marriage, but Christ on wheels, me lad, it's hard to get out."

  "Do you love my sister?"

  "You have a wonderful sister. She wasn't lying to you. I believe I can work this out, but it is one bitch of a bind. Now that's how it is, Byron." With his warmest radio chuckle, Cleveland stood up and lightly slapped his shoulder. "Back to the salt mine. Maybe the three of us can have a drink together later. Tell her not to take that Spreregen job, Byron. It's a stinker."

  Madeline was rushing about outside, carrying a script board and talking to people over one shoulder and the other.

  She came darting to Byron, who leaned against a wall near the exit amid a snarl of cables and lights.

  "Well?" It was a tone of mock conspiracy.

  "Well, what? Where's Mom?"

  "Oh, she won't budge. The director invited her to stay and meet Bogart. You talked to Hugh?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Come on. What happened?" Her look was worried, excited, searching.

  "Did he get mad?"

  She smiled. "No. shotgun, then. He'd have blown his stack at that."

  "Madeline, tell him you're quitting. Do it today. Hang it on me.

  Tell him I've got an, insane temper. Tell him any goddamn thing you want."

  Her face fell. "Did he deny that he wants to marry me?"

  "He fudged. Quit, I tell you. If he's what you want, maybe that'll get him moving."

  ' "Why, Byron Henry." Her eyes slyly narrowed. "That's how a girl thinks. Or should."

  "And if he's stringing you along, you'll find that out, too." She tossed her head, and the lithe hips in a pleated yellow skirt swished away.

&nb
sp; In the villa, hours later, Byron was napping when a gentle knock at the door woke him. "Briny!" Madeline's voice, soft and excited.

  "Are you decent?"

  Slant sunlight made big patches on the drawn red curtains: cocktail time. He sat up, stretching, naked except for shorts.

  "Oh, reasonably."

  She swept in, and stood with her back to the closed door.

  "By Christ, I did it!"

  "Great. Where's Mom?"

  "I don't know. Not here. Briny, I never dreamed I could.

  It's incredible. I feel as though I've broken out of Alcatraz and swum ashore." The red glow through the curtains exaggerated the wild animation of her face. "And the way he took it! In a hundred years, I couldn't have predicted that.

  Byron, he was nice as pie! Utterly sweet! Not a harsh word!

  I'm in a daze. Can I have a drink?"

  Byron put on a robe, and they went into the living room.

  He lolled on the couch, smoking, while she paced around and talked, highball in hand, yellow pleats flapping. She had done it in the dressing room, only an hour or so ago, upon finishing a review o f the next day's script. Cleveland haid been gentle, understanding, and not in the least surprised. "Oh, what a clever dog he is! You know what he said first thing? 'Well, kid, when you consulted your brother, that was it. That meant you already wanted to leave." But, Byron-and this may really floor you-he says you're right. It's much better for me to get out while he pushes the divorce. Otherwise Claire could make real trouble about me. Thank Christ you came here."

  "It's all set? It's definite? You've quit?"

  "Absolutely. Isn't that terrific?"

  "When do you go to work for this Asparagus person, or whatever?"

  Madeline tried to hold her offended look, but her lips tightened and then she exploded in laughter. "Asparagus!

  Honestly, Byron, you're a sketch. What's so hard about Spreregen?"

  "Sorry. When do you start with him?"

  "Next month I called Lenny, he's Still giggling, she said, agreed, and "Wait a minute. Next month?" Byron sat up and swung his hairy naked legs to the floor.

  "Sweetie, of course. I had to give a month's notice. I can't walk out overnight, that's childish." Byron crashed a fist on the coffee table so that books and ashtrays jumped. Frightened, Madeline raised her voice. "Oh, I can't stand you! How can you be so unreasonable? Could you or Dad walk off your ship without a replacement?"

  Byron leaped to his feet. "Goddamn you, Madeline, are you comparing the garbage icieveland does to what I do? To what Dad does?

  To what Warren did? I'll go see this fellow again."

  "No! I don't want you to!" Madeline began to cry. "Oh, how ugly and cruel you can be! Did I mention Warren?"

  "Hell, no, You haven't since I got here."

  "I can't bear to!" Madeline screamed, shaking her fists at him..A storm of tears burst from her eyes. "And neither can you! Oh, God, why did you say that? Why?"

  Rocked back by the outburst, Byron muttered, "Sorry, and tried to put an arm around her.

  She pulled away, drying her eyes with a shaky hand. Her voice was tremulous but hard. "My work's important to me, Byron, and to millions of people. Millions! It's honest work.

  You're just bullying me, aind you have no right to do it.

  You're not Dad. And even he doesn't have the right anymore. I'm not sixteen."

  The door opened and Rhoda walked in, juggling large parcels. "Hi, kids, I've BOUGHT OUT Beverly Hills! Swept down Wilshire Boulevard like a typhoon! They'll be clearing the wreckage for WEEKS! Byron, I'm roasting, make me a nice tall'gin and tonic, will you, dear?" She went on into her bedroom.

  "Oh, Lord," Madeline muttered, wiping her eyes. She had turned her back as her mother entered.

  "Go wash your face, Maddy."

  "Yes. Fix me another drink, too. Strong."

  In a new gay print robe, Rhoda soon looked into the kitchenette where Byron was mixing highballs. "Dear, are you really going back to sub school tonight? That's so awful.

  It seems I've barely laid eyes on you."

  "I'll stay with you tonight, and drive down early. And I'll be back next Sunday."

  "Oh, lovely! You and Maddy have brought me back from the DEAD, YOU truly have. In Washington I felt ENTOMBED. I've bought a RAFT of these California clothes, they're so smart, and light, and different.

  Amazing the stuff they've got out here, war or no war. It's a whole wardrobe for Hawaii. I intend to knock Dad's eyes out."

  "You think you can get there?"

  "Oh, I do. I do. There are ways and means, darling, and I'm absolutely determined-oh, thank you, pet. I may just dunk myself in the pool before I drink this."

  Madeline said in a placating tone, when they were alone again sipping drinks, "Byron, will you really go to Switzerland after sub school? Win the Navy allow it?"

  "I don't know. It depends on what I can find out from the State Department, and the legation in Rome. I won't start up with the Navy unless I have to."

  She walked to his armchair, sat on the arm, and caressed his face.

  "Look, don't be so hard on me."

  "Can't you quit in two weeks?"

  "Trust me, Byron. You've been a big help. It'll work out, I swear."

  Madeline's voice shifted to loud cheerfulness as her mother came out in a bathing suit, carrying a towel. "Hey, Mom, big news!

  Guess what? I'm going to work at Universal Pictures!"

  EARLY IN AUGUST, in the American legation in Bern, the Jastrow-Henry case came to a sudden boil.

  Dr. Hesse, Slote's friend in the Swiss Foreign Ministry, returned from Rome with the shocking news that Jastrow and his niece, having been granted the extraordinary privilege of a seaside holiday, had violated parole and vanished. A Jewish doctor from Siena, a secret Zionist, was involved. The Italian authorities were wrathful, and Dr. Hesse had been called in to the German embassy and asked what he knew.

  The roly-poly pink little diplomat was recounting all this to Stote in a sidewalk card, and half a chocolate eclair trembled on his fork as he described how he had told the German first secretary, a hard nasty customer named Dr. Werner Beck, to go to hell. The situation of Jastrow and his niece, in Hesse's opinion, was now hopeless. If they were hiding, they would be found; if they tried to leave Italy, they would be caught.

  On recapture, -they would go straight to an Italian concentration camp. The'government had confiscated Jastrow's villa, his bank account, and the contents of his safe deposit box.

  Oh, God, thought Slote as he heard this upsetting tale, the same old Natalie, plunging headlong into incalculable risk, this time baby and all! He decided not to report this grave development to Natalie's mother or to Byron-who was writing him letter after letter-until he could find out more; and to do this, he decided, he would have to go to Geneva.

  There the big Jewish organizations, including the Zionists, had their Swiss offices. The American consulate dealt all the time with them; it had contacts too with the Jewish underground. He might learn nothing about the escape. On the other hand, one heard surprising things from the Jews in Geneva, and the information tended to be accurate.

  In was through these contacts that the ghastly accounts of the German extermination camps were trickling in. Slote had been shutting his mind to these reports. After his failure to authenticate the Wannsee Protocol, and the strange death of Father Martin, he felt helpless, even threatened. Preserving himself and his sanity came first. Anyway, who was he to change history? Beyond the postcard beauty of the snowy Alps, there was not only a great war going on, but -he was all but sure - a vast secret slaughter. Meantime, the sun rose each day, one ate and drank, and one's desk was laden with work. There were diplomatic cocktail parties and dinner parties. Wartime life wasn't bad in Bern, everything considered, and the town itself was so clean and quiet and charming!

  On the Zytglogge tower the little jester jingled the hours, the golden giant clanged the bell with his hammer, the puppets did their dan
ce; in the bear pits the tame bears sadly stumbled through their waltzes for carrots. On days when the wind blew away the Alpine mists, the snowy Oberland ridge sprang into sight, white and pink and azure, looking like the approaches to Heaven. The only link to the terror beyond these pretty peaks was the permanent line of refugees with haunted eyes outside the door of the American legation.

  Slote entrained for Geneva is a glum frame of mind. When he returned to Bern three days later, commercial work had piled up in his office. He ground through the heap with his secretary, grateful to be using his mind on rational matters.