‘Back to her old tricks, eh?’
‘As I said, I cannot prove it. Moreover, there is better evidence that Mr. Craig has frequently been in the company of Professor Stratman’s niece, Miss Emily Stratman, who-’
‘How serious is that?’
‘There is no way to know, at least not yet. They dined one evening at Den Gyldene Freden. Oh yes, and also-my scribbling is difficult to read here-but-here-Mr. Craig and Miss Stratman were off alone at the Hammarlund dinner, and he showed unrestrained affection for her.’
Krantz chuckled in what Daranyi considered an evil way. ‘Ach, Daranyi, you poke your nose into everything, do you not? One second-’ He began to write.
‘It is my business,’ said Daranyi, offended.
‘Your skin is thin,’ Krantz called up from his yellow pad. ‘I meant a compliment.’ He peered over the fern. ‘What is the latest on this Craig romance with Miss Stratman? Did he see her yesterday or today?’
‘To my knowledge, no, not in public anyway. The last I have on Mr. Craig was as of four o’clock this afternoon. He was seen entering the building of the Nobel Foundation. I believe he had an appointment with Count Jacobsson…’
Andrew Craig had been in no humour for this appointment with Count Bertil Jacobsson.
The riddle of Emily Stratman’s personality, her unreasonable rejection of him, had left Craig almost destitute of will to live. The drinking of the evening before had not alleviated his desperation, and the enjoyment of Lilly’s body in the night and the solace of her comforting extroversion had been all too brief.
In the morning his resentment of Leah’s meddling and her dangerous jealousy had hardened him, and he had returned to the hotel with every intention of a showdown. But Leah, no doubt anticipating his fury, had been too clever to present herself before him so soon. A flippant note, left on the stand beside his bed, advised him that, in the company of Margherita Farelli, and under the guidance of Mr. Manker, she was off for the day and the night to the province of Dalarna, north of Stockholm, to tour the Lake Siljan district. Her note begged Craig not to worry about her-this was the flippancy-for she would be back early the morning of the tenth, in time to help dress him for the Nobel Ceremony.
The day had been vacant, haunting, and he had read and wandered and avoided all bars, entertaining Emily constantly in his thoughts, resenting her and loving her and hating her responsibility for the resumption of his torment.
He had not been unmindful of his four o’clock appointment with Jacobsson, a date made several days before, and every hour he had considered cancelling it on some pretext. Jacobsson had wanted Craig to visit his private apartment above the Foundation offices, and see his museum-whatever that was-and at the time, Craig had agreed, had even looked forward to the visit, assuming that Emily would accompany him. But, with circumstances as they were, it was a dull duty. What had made him keep the date, finally, was boredom-that, and no wish to disappoint the fine old gentleman.
Now, nearly half an hour had passed among the books and glass cases of Jacobsson’s spacious library in his apartment at Sturegatan 14. To his surprise, Craig had not found the visit disagreeable. The tranquillity of the room, as removed from wordly cares as a station in space, the literacy of the host, had eased Craig’s nerves and absorbed his attention.
They stood before the last of the glass cases. Jacobsson pointed his cane at a yellowed letter. ‘Romain Rolland wrote that on behalf of Carl Spitteler of Switzerland. More than anything, that helped Spitteler win the literary award in 1919… Next to it, an 1882 first edition of Det Nya Riket-The New Kingdom-signed by Strindberg himself. Why is it here when Strindberg was never a laureate? Because of the book’s association. In this non-fiction work, Strindberg used Wirsén badly-you recall, the chairman of the Swedish Academy-and it was one more reason why Wirsén kept Strindberg from getting the prize… And here-look closely, Mr. Craig-the cancelled Nobel Peace Prize cheque for $36,734 that was given to Theodore Roosevelt. It is signed by him. Do you know what he did with that cheque? Originally, he gave it to a special committee that was formed to further industrial peace in the United States. But, I am told, the committee dragged its heels, and your Rough Rider was not a patient man. Ten years later, Roosevelt demanded the money back and presented it to a fund for the comfort of the American soldiers fighting the First World War-the Peace Prize, mind you.’
A cautious rapping on the door interrupted them, and Jacobsson excused himself and opened the door. His secretary, Astrid Steen, had a message, and she delivered it verbally, in an undertone. Jacobsson listened, frowning, and then considered the message a moment.
Turning suddenly to Craig, he said, ‘Miss Sue Wiley is outside. She has requested permission to see me for a moment, to authenticate some piece of information or other. Do you mind if I have her in here and get it over with?’
‘Of course not,’ said Craig. ‘I’m inoculated against all Typhoid Marys.’
Jacobsson chuckled and turned back to the door. ‘Very well, Mrs. Steen, show her in, but tell Miss Wiley it will be only for a moment.’
He waited at the open door, and Craig occupied himself with kindling his pipe.
Sue Wiley entered breezily, thanking Jacobsson, and briefly disconcerted by Craig’s unexpected presence. ‘Well, I didn’t think I’d find you here,’ she said to Craig. ‘What’s up? Counting your money?’
Craig kept his temper. She was not worth it, and she was too ridiculous in some kind of newly purchased fur Cossack hat, with a matching fur muff that she carried looped over one wrist. ‘If it’s private, I’ll step outside,’ said Craig.
‘None of my comings and goings are private, Mr. Craig. Stay put. I’ll be out in a flash.’ She pivoted on her spiked heels towards Jacobsson. ‘Just a point of information, Count. I’m becoming a historian-and I’m strictly contemporary-so every once in a while, I get shaky about a fact. This one concerns George Bernard Shaw. Remember him?’
‘I certainly do’, said Jacobsson courteously.
‘Somebody told me he turned down the Nobel Prize flat. That’s it. True or false?’
‘I am afraid I must disappoint you, Miss Wiley. What is true is that we voted Mr. Shaw the prize in 1925. When the Swedish Minister in London notified him of the award, Mr. Shaw, who was often critical of prizes in general and our own prize in particular, replied in strongest terms, “No, I do not want it. What do I need the money for?” The untrue part is your information that he actually turned it down. He did not. After giving the matter more mature consideration, for one week, he changed his mind and accepted the prize. I will add that he was most gracious about the money we gave him. He assigned it for use in the creation of an Anglo-Swedish Alliance that would encourage literary and artistic understanding between Great Britain and Sweden.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sue Wiley, ‘and, may I add, you are wrong to think I am disappointed. If I didn’t know you were such a nice person, I’d believe you were letting people poison your mind against me. What do you think I’m after, Count Jacobsson-scandal and nothing else? I’m anything but an advocate of yellow journalism. I’m simply after the truth.’
‘Miss Wiley,’ said Jacobsson with infinite restraint, ‘in my experience I have found that truth has three faces-a whole truth, a half-truth, and a white lie that is barely truth.’ He paused. ‘As a matter of fact, I am glad you brought the word up. I have meant to invite you in for a little orientation talk. It has come to my attention-or would you prefer to converse at another time in private?’
‘Not at all. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Mr. Craig or anyone else.’
‘Then, what I have been meaning to say to you is this-and only the pressure of my responsibilities during this week of festivity has prevented my saying it sooner-it has come to my attention that you have been making numerous inquiries about the city concerning one type of information and one type only.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘The inference has be
en, and I have heard it from several reliable sources, that you are attempting to acquire only such information as will be detrimental to the Nobel institutes.’
‘Says who?’ snapped Sue Wiley, colouring. ‘That’s ridiculous. I’m an objective reporter doing an objective job. I don’t invent material. I take it as it comes. If it sometimes turns up black instead of white, well-as I said-truth.’ Suddenly, her eyes began to blink, and they narrowed. ‘You wouldn’t be suggesting that I leave out some of the things I find, to conform to your ideas of-of censorship, would you?’
Craig found this unbearable, and shifted from one leg to the other, irked by her tone, her obvious attempt to force a censorship angle out of Jacobsson. But Jacobsson remained unruffled and diplomatic. ‘I am suggesting no such thing, Miss Wiley, and do not even dream of it. You are in a free country, among a free people, and we encourage you to write as you please. I only say that it distresses me to have our guests seek half-truths about us, and offer them to the world as whole truths.’
‘If that’s all that is worrying you, have no fears about me. I’m sticking strictly to the facts. If you find lies or libel in my copy, you can sue. That’s how sure I am.’
A smile flickered across Jacobsson’s wrinkled features. ‘The Nobel Foundation is a quasi-government institution, Miss Wiley. We approve or disapprove, but we do not sue.’
‘Then we understand each other. Well, I guess I’ve taken enough of your-’
‘One moment, Miss Wiley. Something occurs to me. Since you have been gathering so much information from so great a variety of sources, perhaps it would be to your benefit to add one more story that comes to you straight from the headquarters of the awards.’
Sue Wiley brightened. ‘A story! Any time!’
Jacobsson looked off. ‘If you do not mind, Mr. Craig-’
‘I’m as interested as Miss Wiley.’
‘Please sit down, Miss Wiley. You too, Mr. Craig. I will make it as short as possible. Do you have a pencil, Miss Wiley?’
‘I’m all set.’ She had seated herself across from Jacobsson’s antique walnut desk, fishing pen and notebook from her handbag. Craig stayed on his feet, lighting his pipe again, Jacobsson busied himself with the row of green ledgers on the shelf above his desk, removed a single ledger, and brought it down to the desk behind which he now seated himself. He leafed through the pages until he had located what he was after. He looked up.
‘Miss Wiley,’ he said, ‘as you know, there are five Nobel Prize awards, and they have been given with some regularity almost every year since 1901. The world has come to look upon these awards as the highest achievement-highest honour on earth man can confer upon man. Therefore, the Nobel Prize awards have become a sacred cow. The temptation to journalists, every so often, to prove this sacred cow only a common bovine is irresistible. You will go around the city, and you will find it all too easy to learn our shortcomings-how many times in my too many years I have heard them repeated and broadcast with relish and glee-how we are anti-Russian, how we are pro-German, how we indulge ourselves in nepotism-above all, first and the worst of it, how we vote our prizes out of prejudices and politics and fears. Some of this is truth, and I am the very first to admit it. In fact, whenever I have the honour to take visiting laureates on tours of our academies, I always make it a point to let them know our worst side as well as our best, and Mr. Craig will confirm this. What bothers me, all of us here, the most is that our visitors seize upon our worst side, and too often ignore our best side. I am going to take the liberty of giving you one instance, my favourite, of our best side. I promised you a story, did I not?’
‘You did,’ said Sue Wiley, less brash than earlier.
‘You came here this afternoon wondering if George Bernard Shaw had actually turned down the prize, and I told you he had not. Now, I will tell you the story of another man who was prevailed upon to turn down the prize, and did not, and of his prize that was by all logic and commonsense not to be voted and given, and was voted and given. I will tell you about Carl von Ossietzky, and I will write the name down for you, because I want you to spell it right and not forget it and not let your readers forget it.’
Unhurriedly, Jacobsson block-printed the name Carl von Ossietzky on a piece of notepaper and handed it to Sue Wiley, who accepted it and studied it with bewilderment. Hearing the name, Craig tried to remember where he had heard it before-either at the Royal Banquet or the Hammarlund dinner, one or the other-but still, the name was foreign to his ears, and he was curious about what Jacobsson might have to say of this unknown name.
Jacobsson gazed at his open green ledger, and then he resumed speaking. ‘There is an expression that has gained currency in our day that refers to “the little man”. There are variations on this expression like “the common man” or “a member of the masses”. This is supposed to mean, I presume, the average man on earth who is not distinguished by wealth or fame or authority. From cradle to the grave, he eats and sleeps, does drone’s labour, propagates the species, makes no policies or headlines or scandals, and when he dies, is mourned by none but relatives and a handful of friends, and disappears from the planet as casually and unmissed as the ant one inadvertently steps on every day. Such a man, for forty-two years, was Carl von Ossietzky, a German national who wrote mediocre articles for his bread, and whose one foible-we all of us have one foible-was that he hated militarism after having served four years in the Imperial German Army during the First World War. What lifted Ossietzky from the obscurity of the ranks of “the little man” was his growing obsession that all soldiers were, in his words, “murderers”, and that there was “nothing heroic” about war. Most men know this and think it and hate any memory of killing, and most men live on, doing nothing about it. Ossietzky was the one who decided to do something about it, to eliminate the evil, to practise and preach what he believed.’
Jacobsson looked up from the ledger at Craig, and then at Sue Wiley.
‘His history is brief,’ said Jacobsson, ‘and his accomplishments few. He was a reporter on the Berliner Volkszeitung. He was an editor of Weltbuhne. He was a secretary of the German Peace Society. He was one of the founders of the international No More War Society. He was an advocate of a new holiday to be called Anti-War Day. So far, admirable, yes, and obsessive, but not particularly meaningful. Then, one day in 1929, with more courage than commonsense, he published an article in German exposing disarmed Germany’s secret war budget, and telling the world that his Fatherland was breaking its treaty pledges by secretly building an army and an air force. For this, Ossietzky was charged with treason in 1931 and thrown into prison for almost two years. The confinement was shattering, not only because he had weak lungs and suffered from the early ravages of tuberculosis, but because he knew what evil was afoot and wanted freedom to shout a warning to the duped world.
‘When he came out of prison, there was a new name and power on the land, and the name and power was that of Adolf Hitler. Ossietzky blindly resumed his pacifistic campaign. Friends reminded him of the consequences and begged him to flee across the border. To them Ossietzky replied, “A man who speaks from across a border has a hollow voice.” He stayed in Germany. He hooted Hitler when others cheered him. He told his countrymen that “German war spirit contains nothing but the desire for conquest.” He was a tiny thorn to Hitler, but a thorn, and he must be plucked.
‘On the night of February 27, 1933-it is here in my Notes-the German Reichstag building in Berlin went up in flames, and out of the ashes rose the Third Reich. On that night the thorn was plucked, for on that night Carl von Ossietzky, among others, was arrested once more and imprisoned as an enemy of the state. For the first time, there were those who realized that a voice of sanity had been stilled. As Ossietzky suffered torture in the Sonnenburg concentration camp, the German League for the Rights of Man sent his name to Oslo as a nominee for the Nobel Peace Prize. But he was “the little man”, and my colleagues ignored him. The following year, news of Ossietzky’s suffering an
d martyrdom circled the globe, and suddenly the Nobel Peace Committee found itself inundated with official nominations of his name. Romain Rolland nominated him. Albert Einstein nominated him. Thomas Mann nominated him. Jane Addams nominated him. The National Assembly of Switzerland nominated him. The Labour Party of Norway nominated him. I could go on for hours with the nominations that poured into Oslo. No longer could “the little man” be ignored.
‘Now, Miss Wiley, you will see the difficulties that confront a Nobel Prize committee. On the one hand, the intellects of the world were urging the Norwegians to honour and reward a man who had defied the leader of the nation that was Norway’s greatest threat to existence. On the other hand, the Nobel judges were being reminded of the possible outcome of such an award. Inside Norway itself, Knut Hamsun, who had become a Fascist, was writing against Ossietzky, and Vidkun Quisling was calling “the little man” a traitor, in print. The League of Patriots in Norway were demanding that Hitler or Mussolini, not the detestable Ossietzky, receive the 1935 Peace Prize. And outside Norway, the pressure was as strong, stronger. Goebbels was cursing Ossietzky as Jew and Communist, although he was neither a Jew nor a Communist. Hitler’s Schwarzes Korps was warning the Nobel judges that a vote for Ossietzky “would be a slap in the face of the German people.” Göring who knew the Nobel family through his first wife-the Swedish Baroness Karin Fock, who died of tuberculosis in 1932-put himself in touch with the Nobel heirs, and they allegedly advised the Nobel Peace Committee to turn down the Ossietzky nomination.
‘Try to imagine, if you can, the state of mind of each of the five judges on the Nobel Peace Committee. One of the judges was Dr. Halvdan Koht, Foreign Minister of Norway. Another judge was Johan Ludwig Mowinckel, who had been Prime Minister of Norway and was the leader of the Left. Both were powerful men who favoured Ossietzky, but both were practical politicians who knew that if they made Ossietzky a laureate, they were insulting Hitler and inviting him to break off diplomatic relations with their country. In its voting session, the five committee-men debated themselves hoarse. At last, the decision was made. It could not be Ossietzky. The survival of Norway came first. There was talk of giving the prize to Toméš Masaryk, of Czechoslovakia, but even this seemed unsafe. At last, to squirm out of the trouble, the committee determined to give the prize to Prince Carl, of Sweden, for some Red Cross activities of his a decade and a half earlier. But before the vote, it was found that Prince Carl was ineligible, since his nomination had reached Oslo two days after the final deadline. And so the committee threw up its collective hands, and told the world there would be no Peace Prize in 1935-as there is none this year-because there was a war in Africa, and the time was “inappropriate”.’
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