The Witness Tree

by Brendan Howley

  Down the beach, a slim figure walked toward her. The heat from the sand made a mirage of him. She heard him whistling but couldn’t make out the tune; perhaps there wasn’t one, but the sound was cheering and clear, a folk song, perhaps, from far away.

  He was closer now, probably wondering where she had gone. She looked up at the sun: must be nearly three—time to think about heading back to Grace’s car and the train ride back to Washington, to the world of echoing corridors and ringing telephones and closing doors. He halted on the far side of the small bay, looking back toward the ridge that represented the high-water mark of the lake eons ago.

  Then, to Eleanor’s surprise, he tossed off his shirt and trousers and everything else, his boots flung away underhand, and cut a splashing path into the glassy lake. She didn’t dare move as he knifed straight at the far shore, a perfect rolling crawl, a white arrowhead in the gray-green water.

  Just as suddenly, he reversed and emerged, and walked back to his clothes, drawing his trousers on, his shirt thrown over his back, his boots in his hands. He came around the long arc of the small bay, whistling again, that strange rising tune, definitely something she’d never heard before, his face coming into focus, varnished with lake water, happy, she realized, just to see her. She stepped from the trees and onto the beach.

  He waved. “There you are! There’s a fire tower up on that ridge. See for miles. Really quite wonderful, see almost to the Hudson, I think. That’s where the trees end. Great walk. You too?”

  She felt a thrill of closeness and smiled at him. “I wandered off into the woods after I woke up. I love the quiet, with the water out there,” she said, scrambling down the small bluff to the gritty beach. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I have to go back to Washington tomorrow, pack tonight, that sort of thing. Do you mind if we head slowly back? Comes with being a working mother, you see.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said, visibly pleased at his conquest of the fire tower, and began to right the boats.

  “No, not simply wrong, it’s criminal,” Misha disagreed. “No one will stand with the Czechs.” He drove; they bantered, good-naturedly at first as the sun set behind them, then more sharply as they approached Manhattan. “Mussolini as mediator?” he went on. “That’s a joke. You Americans don’t understand: Hitler’s a cannibal.”

  Eleanor had bent herself against a folded blanket, a rough pillow jammed between the car seat and the door, her arm flung out. “So I take it you don’t see the Sudeten crisis as any kind of resolution?”

  “Oh, come on. Why the hell should Hitler stop? The English don’t care, the French are terrified. Goering’s already told one of your diplomats your country will become the most anti-Semitic country in the world within a decade, once Roosevelt is through with America. The Nazis think you’re finished: Roosevelt is a Jew—”

  “If you’d let me speak, please.” Eleanor waited. “Roosevelt’s no more a Jew than I am.”

  “Of course not. You know that and I know that, but the Nazis believe their own propaganda. It’s easier for them: thinking can take you places you don’t want to go in Nazi Germany, believe me. Where was I?”

  “We’re finished,” Eleanor replied, thoroughly enjoying herself.

  “We are?” He shot her a look, but she was gazing out the window at the meadowlands, soft hills green as lime skin in the lengthening shadows.

  “You were speaking of the end of America.”

  “Ah.” He looked over at her carefully. “You believed in Hitler once, didn’t you?”

  “Once,” Eleanor admitted. “Very early on. I thought socialism was the answer for Weimar. Still do. What can I say? I’m a socialist: I worry about the children and the elderly and their pensions and the unions.” She opened her purse and dug out a very crumpled pack of very old Pall Malls. “I thought Hitler’s ideas might work.”

  “That’s why you were in Berlin, at Krumme Lanke?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s why I was there. I was there to research my book on the Bank for International Settlements, but more, really, to see for myself. All it took was one ride on a tramcar to see everything: the coarse faces, the fear, the worry. And my friends there, my socialist friends, they were the first to fall into the Gestapo’s hands when Hitler became chancellor, the first ones into the Black Marias.”

  “Well, at least you’re honest about it. Half the people I talk to who were once for Hitler don’t own up. What, the unemployment—that what sold you?”

  “I thought there would be a genuine socialist revolution, like in Austria.” She lit a cigarette and offered it to him; he declined. “I was wrong. Hitler’s no socialist. That’s a lie. And what do you believe?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the only economy that works these days is a military one. That hardly bodes well for the women and children, does it?”

  “You sound like my brother Allen. He’s certain there’ll be another European war. Same reasons, different reasoning.”

  “Clearly a man of fine and subtle mind.”

  Eleanor snorted. “The family believes the brains all went the other way, Herr Resnikoff.”

  Misha thought for a moment. “Families almost invariably back the wrong horse. Shakespeare’s full of such lessons. Your other brother seems to be a horse’s arse when it comes to understanding Germany, from what little I’ve read.”

  “Foster is a first-class attorney,” Eleanor shot back, upright on the bench seat, eyes flashing. “You won’t find a better lawyer, anywhere. He runs Sullivan and Cromwell, managing partner, has for years.”

  “Doesn’t make him a statesman—makes him a great lawyer. In any case, I want to see what might be saved here. It’s a huge country, America, a young country. The workers here have real spirit. Look at New York, the life here, the drive of the working people.”

  “I thought you were a banker. You sound more like a Marxist.” They were on the highway now, in open country, the landscape flat as polder, the serrated edge of the New York skyline just ahead. “I’ve known a few front-porch Marxists in my day, I can tell you that,” Eleanor said. “Grace for one.”

  They’d reached the four-lane highway, a stub of new expressway just before the tunnel across to Manhattan.

  “Your friend Grace? She’s no Marxist—she’s an anarchist, and a rich one! A dangerous woman!” He laughed.

  Eleanor made no reply. She smoked for a long minute, watching the suburban houses slip past. “Will Stalin oppose Hitler?”

  Misha slapped the steering wheel in annoyance. “You’re the economist, you tell me. Why should he? Stalin feeds the bastard, sells him oil, wheat, rice, iron, minerals, natural gas.”

  Eleanor cast a shrewd eye at him. “Cash registers and cipher machines don’t seem very exciting for a man of your talents. You like politics, do you? My brother Allen is going to run for Congress. I can introduce you. He’d like you, I know. He’s a wanderer too.”

  They had reached the end of the highway; a fleet of cars and trucks were funneling themselves toward the tunnel mouth to New York.

  “Why not?” he said. “Might be amusing. This is America. Who cares about my émigré politics?”

  “Might be more than amusing, at that. Allen could win,” Eleanor observed. “Real connections in Washington might do you a world of good.”

  Misha thought for a moment, assessing the congealed traffic, then switched on the convertible’s bug-eyed front lights for the run through the tunnel. “Tell me about your brother. Your brothers. Tell me,” he said, not looking at her, eyes set on the twin line of vehicles ahead in the gloom, “about Sullivan and Cromwell.”

  XXIV

  NEW YORK

  SEPTEMBER 1938

  Misha could hear the rustling of appointment book pages as the Sullivan and Cromwell secretary searched. “Seventh floor, ask for Dr. Spielberger’s office. He’ll be in the waiting room”—then a metallic click as she rang off. How was the woman so sure he’d be in the waiting room, Misha wondered as he rode the t
hrobbing elevator of One Park Avenue upwards. The elevator operator, a forward fellow of uncertain age, had a bright, closely shaven face.

  “First time in New York, mister?” He chewed his gum as if it might escape.

  Misha nodded politely.

  “Waddya think so far?” the operator pressed on.

  “Impressive, I must say. How’d you guess?”

  “No guess. The shoes. You get to know. You’re English?”

  “No. Latvian. From Latvia,” Misha replied, just to cross him.

  “Oh.” He seemed disappointed. Misha guessed he was either early forties or a serious drinker in his late twenties biding his time until the first sip of the afternoon. “That’s somewhere’s near … I dunno,” the operator surrendered.

  “On the Baltic. Between Germany and Russia.”

  The operator shook his head. “Jeez. Who’d wanna live there? Your floor, mister.”

  Dr. Spielberger’s office boasted a pair of lions guarding faux Greek columns on either side of the big buffed oak door, which Misha opened, revealing Allen Dulles reading Investors Daily, his foot raised on a stool, alone in a waiting room big enough for six dentists.

  “Ah, you must be Misha, the fellow Eleanor mentioned. Find your way here all right?”

  “You have a very able secretary, Mr. Dulles.”

  “Allen, call me Allen. Sorry we have to meet like this, but I’m short of time, getting the campaign off the ground. Eats my days whole.”

  “You’ll be next?”

  Allen looked puzzled. “I’ll what?”

  “The dentist,” Misha said.

  Allen chuckled, the laugh of a deferential man accustomed to calibrating his degree of amusement precisely to the company he kept. “Oh, no, my teeth are fine. It’s my gout’s acting up. I have a client who asked me to make sure she got home all right.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  Allen wasn’t quite sure his new acquaintance was entirely sincere. “Well, you do anything for a client like Mrs. Osgood Boone. She’s our fourth-wealthiest client, and the firm sees to it she stays that way.”

  Allen looked down at his magazine at a photograph of Alice Faye. Misha marveled at the short attention spans of the Americans he’d met so far; they seemed incapable of sustained thought.

  “Ah. You administer her trust.”

  Allen raised his head, adagio, the movement of a big animal. “Not as slow as you look, are you?”

  “There’s some advantage in being perennially underestimated.”

  “I see. The underspin game. We’ll see about that. Eleanor has this idea you’d be useful around the campaign office. We’re always looking for a good banking man. Late start, I’m afraid. We’re playing catch-up.”

  “With Mrs. Boone?”

  “Oh, her vote’s in the bag, I’d say,” Allen answered. “Eleanor tells me you worked for the Enskilda Bank in London and Stockholm.”

  “As glorified foreign exchange accounts manager on the bond desk.”

  Allen frowned, weighing this. “Well, that’s what we need, an accounts manager. My first choice, a fine fellow, has decided his new wife is more important than my electoral success. Can’t say I blame him—she’s a pistol. What about you?”

  “I don’t have a wife.”

  The lawyer let go a real laugh this time. “You’ve got references?”

  “Sheaves,” Misha replied, sliding the envelope across.

  Allen arched his eyebrows. “Let’s have a look. Can’t have you wandering off with the silver, can we?” He shuffled the pages, reading. “I know Gleisner in London. Good man. Met him in Berlin, actually, end of ’33. What’s he now?”

  “He runs the Enskilda head office in the City.”

  Allen folded up the letters and handed them back. “If Gleisner says you’re okay, you’re okay with me. When can you start?”

  “After work tomorrow.”

  “Which is?”

  “National Cash Register. I’m in research.”

  “You know what they say? It pays to stand next to the cash register.” Misha laughed dutifully as a perfectly turned-out nurse appeared.

  “Mr. Dulles? Dr. Spielberger is bringing Mrs. Boone out now.”

  “You go to the Belmont Hotel tomorrow,” Allen said to Misha, lowering his gouty foot to the floor gently, “and ask for Don. He’ll show you the ropes.”

  Dr. Spielberger, a smooth, tanned gentleman in his late fifties, entered with a small, birdlike woman on his arm. Eighty if she’s a day, Misha guessed, and dressed like a schoolgirl, in black twinset and white Peter Pan collar, except for the string of exquisite pearls at her neck and a regally proportioned wedding ring.

  “I feel so much better, Allen,” Mrs. Boone announced in an actress’s throaty voice. “Doctor, I can’t thank you enough. You are a wonder.”

  “Lovely to see you again, Mrs. Boone,” the dentist replied. “And Mr. Dulles, those oil stocks you recommended are just purring along.”

  Allen laughed graciously while Mrs. Boone gave the dentist a peck, then pirouetted on tiny feet to confront her escort. “I want flowers to celebrate, Allen. I want the foyer lush with them. Take me to the florists on West Eighty-seventh. Come. Time’s wasting.”

  It’s straight out of Molière, Misha thought: the crone, the doctor, the crafty consort, and the ingenue.

  Allen glanced at his watch as the dentist and his starlet nurse withdrew behind the marbleized door. “Unfortunately, I have to get back to the office, Mrs. Boone. But my associate here will take you—”

  Mrs. Boone’s dried lips formed a perfect moue. “You promised, Allen.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Boone. I have to see to business this afternoon, your trust included. Tiresome, but true. Look here, this fellow is Russian aristocracy”—he winked at Misha, leading his desiccated charge to the entranceway—“a real live relative of the Romanoffs.”

  Misha rose to the occasion. “Distantly, actually, ma’am. We were in service.”

  “Oh. Oh, indeed?” the dowager twittered, examining Misha, drawing her pearls through her fingers like a rosary. “In service to the Romanoffs? How extraordinary. Where, at the Winter Palace?”

  “No, ma’am. The summer palace, at the Peterhof,” Misha invented.

  “Summer? That’s it, that’s the idea! I want orange. I must have orange.”

  “Pardon, ma’am?”

  “You’ve inspired me, young man. I want orange flowers for my foyer. To celebrate.”

  Misha said the first thing that came into his head: “Tiger lilies, ma’am.”

  “Oh, that’s a capital idea. Fiery and orange against the gray marble. Wonderful. And you can just tell me all about that mad monk. Hold nothing back: was he really a constant visitor to the empress’s bedchamber?”

  Allen loitered at the coats, bending close to Misha. “She’s half my bonus, get me?”

  “My uncle Vladimir,” Misha improvised, “one of the imperial chamberlains, would become particularly angry when I’d inquire about the domestic situation, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Boone paled at this revelation. “Quel scandale. And the little boy in his care. Quel scandale … tell me more.” She pressed close to Misha as they left, past the dentist’s absurd brass lions curled on their plinths, awaiting with sightless eyes their next prey.

  XXV

  Three days later. The old politicos and Misha worked through the supper hour at Dulles campaign headquarters: the Belmont Hotel’s side ballroom was the staff’s bull pen, its floor space webbed over with a tangle of telephone cabling. Heaped brochures and stacks of handbills flanked garbage pails overflowing with trash from the boxed lunches sent in. Allen’s wide, impassive face stared down from every wall, overserious and looking rather as if he’d sat in something unpleasant as the photoflash went off, Misha thought.

  Misha deviled away at the campaign ledgers on an adding machine whose keys stuck. Don Hollander appeared, a thin, tough, distracted political hack with a hound dog face and tie askew. Hollan
der smoked constantly, his concave chest fighting for breath beneath a graying rayon shirt. He spoke between coughs, a shoebox full of receipts at his side. “Hey, you done?”

  “We balance. This week, anyway,” Misha said.

  “Sure, great. Get onto that night manager, sort out these meal receipts. Tell ’em we’re just renting—we don’t want to own the damn place.” He dropped the box on Misha’s desk.

  “Right,” Misha muttered. “We don’t want to own the place.”

  Twenty minutes later, that brush fire extinguished, Misha returned to Hollander’s office, knocked, heard Hollander’s rasped laugh and something unintelligible through the door.

  “Oh yeah, he’s a real Svengali with the broads, he is—Hey, shut the goddamn door,” Hollander ordered. “And next time wait till I answer. Jesus.”

  Misha had walked straight into the stares of Hollander and two box-headed lugs in suits sitting quite close to two briefcases atop Hollander’s desk. The briefcases immediately caught Misha’s eye. One of the matching lugs tried to shut them fast, but he glimpsed the stacked greenbacks in neat rows nonetheless.

  Misha put the meal expense account file on Hollander’s desk, not too close, he thought, to the briefcases. “The night manager says we can meet with him at nine tonight in the coffee shop.”

  Hollander swung his worn shoes onto his desk and lit another cigarette. “Where you from? Originally?”

  “Latvia. But I—”

  “Shut up,” Hollander said easily, the way most people say good afternoon. “Here we do things different, different from wherever the hell it is you’re from.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Misha offered.

  “What money?” Hollander asked, squinting through the cigarette smoke. The lugs stared back too, waiting to be fed or watered, Misha thought. “Allen wants to see you at seven.”