Come Nineveh, Come Tyre: The Presidency of Edward M. Jason

by Allen Drury

  Just exactly what would you do, in such a circumstance? Would you shout out frantically to your fellow passers-by, “Help! Help! They’re taking the Times! (or the Post!) Help, citizens! Help, freedom lovers! Help, fellow believers in American democracy! They’re taking—they’re taking—they’re taking—the press?”

  Would you immediately leap forward, in company with all your fellow citizens, alerted and made knowledgeable by your cry, a great, angry, overwhelming mass, noble and not to be denied, to rescue in savage scuffle, yourselves unarmed against armed and ruthless men, the once arrogant but now wan and horrified souls being dragged off to—who knows what?

  Would you, if rescue failed, throw yourselves heroically in front of the vans, the sheer weight of your massed bodies stopping their escaping surge with a sickening and bloody crunch?

  Would you cry havoc and let slip the dogs of civil rebellion to save your free press?

  Why, no, of course you wouldn’t.

  In the first place, two-thirds of you wouldn’t even glance up from your busy scurrying down the streets on your own private affairs.

  And of the third of you who did notice, perhaps only a handful would be informed enough and sophisticated enough to have an inkling of what was going on.

  And of that handful, half would think, very quickly, Well, it’s none of my affair, I’d better get on by just as fast as I can and forget about it, I can’t afford to get involved.

  And half again would think, Oh, dear, they can’t do that, but how can I stop them, oh, dear, I might get hurt, I guess I’d better not try to do anything, oh, dear.

  And of the three or four left, perhaps one or two of you might half start forward—and then as abruptly stop, appalled by the unbelievable occasion, paralyzed by the knowledge of your own unarmed vulnerability, aware that you were almost entirely alone, aware that you might very well be instantly shot down.…

  And so they would take the Times and the Post, and any others across the country they might want to take, in exactly the same way … and in the offices so swiftly and smoothly made vacant, other men would suddenly appear, from outside, perhaps, but more likely from other editorial desks, or from obscure offices on other floors, rising from their places in the composing room, or converging swiftly from the library stacks, or entering from the business department—just as they actually have in so many other newsrooms in so many other doomed lands … and presently, without the world being aware of even a pause or a hitch, the presses would roll again … and next day, just as always in the world where the Times and the Post and their sister publications are such permanent, immutable and reassuring fixtures, the regular editions would appear, containing editorials, headlines and news stories fervently praising the President of the United States, hailing his Administration and all its works, endorsing his policies in every phase—praising, praising, praising the Russians for their forbearance and cooperation—urging, urging, urging the people of the United States to accept with a docile and unprotesting compliance the yoke so shrewdly, cleverly and unanswerably prepared.…

  He had sent out his column, received the first startled phone calls from his colleagues, emphasized his belief in what he had written; received assurances of their belief and support; left his office at the Post and walked through the bitter cold to the Metropolitan Club (since it was too late for Roosevelt to come with the car and drive him back to “Salubria”); taken a room and slept fitfully until about eight, when he had arisen, dressed and come down to breakfast.

  A few of his fellow members had been in the dining room and one or two of them, carrying the Post or the Times with their stark headlines, favorable editorials and his column, had come over to shake hands and talk with him for a moment in quiet tones. But the tones were not only quiet, they were muffled, even furtive; and while others in the room had looked at him with startled recognition, they had abruptly looked away and buried themselves in their papers; and with a prickling of his scalp he had realized that there was something new in the Metropolitan Club: fear, as palpable as though he could see its ugly paralyzing presence seeping through the halls and public rooms.

  He finished his light meal quickly, signed his check, got his coat, went down to the lobby. There he had the same experience several times with old friends from the Hill or the departments who had never hesitated before to greet and fawn upon him. He knew instinctively that they had believed him—but he knew also that they were afraid to be seen talking to him. This made him sad at first. Then it made him angry. He was tempted to shout, “My God, don’t you see we’ve all got to stand together, otherwise they’re going to pick us off one by one?” But you didn’t shout in the Metropolitan Club or anywhere else where skeptical, civilized men foregathered in their skeptical, civilized way; and he knew, with a crushing certainty, that it was almost at the point where it no longer mattered: they were going to be picked off one by one, anyway.

  In five minutes or so Roosevelt arrived, and Walter sensed before he spoke that something was upsetting him.

  “What is it?” he demanded sharply.

  “Arbella,” Roosevelt said tersely as he opened the door and helped him in. “She scared. She scared good and plenty.”

  “Why?” he demanded again as the doors closed and Roosevelt moved the limousine carefully out into traffic to begin what would be, with snow-clogged streets and snow-clogged country roads, at least an hour and a half drive to “Salubria.”

  “She dream about you, Mistuh Waltuh,” he said. He paused and then added soberly, “An’ de house.”

  “What about the house?” he asked sharply, the familiar knifelike apprehension starting inside.

  “You know, Mistuh Waltuh,” Roosevelt said quietly. “You know.”

  “Where is she?” he asked at last.

  “Down de road a piece.”

  “Safe,” he said.

  Roosevelt nodded.

  “Safe.”

  “Good,” he said. “Hurry.”

  “Fas’ as I can, Mistuh Waltuh,” Roosevelt agreed softly. “Fas’ as I can.”

  But it was not, of course, fast enough.

  They passed through Leesburg, turned off on the familiar lane, began the rolling, twisting run along the worn old ruts through the snow piled high on either side. As they neared the final bend in the woods he saw the great pillar of smoke rising above the trees and heard a raucous clanging behind them. The local fire engine slipped and slithered past on the bend, its occupants giving him friendly shouts and encouraging waves. But he knew there was nothing to be encouraged about.

  The car turned the bend. Dimly as through a great screen of darkness he heard Roosevelt draw a sudden sharp breath.

  Before them they saw all that remained of “Salubria,” dancing bright against the sullen sky.

  Around 10 p.m. that night, after a day in which the nation hung suspended in fear, foreboding, inaction and uncertainty, there occurred at the gates of St. Elizabeth’s insane asylum in southwest Washington an odd and interesting sight. No television cameras were there to record it, no reporters from the Post, the Times, the Star-News or any other publication were on hand avid with their pencils. But the media were well represented, and in a way it was a pity that the distinguished members who were present could not have reported it. For it was a historic jest and jape, filled with the ironic horror that had filled similar occasions in half a hundred other lands.

  Five armored vans drew up to the door. Fifty-six men under heavy guard were brought out.

  It could have been observed, had anyone other than the wardens been there to watch it, that four of them had very familiar faces: one was Frankly Unctuous, the other two were his ranking news-commentary colleagues from the other networks, the fourth was Walter Dobius, whose picture had appeared at the head of his column for twenty-five years. The others had rarely appeared before the general public, so they might not have been recognized: general directors, editors, publishers, leading reporters and editorialists of the Times, the Post, the Ass
ociated Press, United Press International, The Greatest Publication, the New York Post, the Boston Globe, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle. All were disheveled, distraught, looking as though they might indeed be on the verge of taking leave of their senses, shivering in the wind.

  Just as they were about to be hurried through the gates a small Mercedes-Benz drew up. A guard went forward deferentially and opened its door. The president pro tempore of the United States Senate got out, on his face a smile happy, triumphant, almost innocent, like that of some horrible child about to pull the wings off butterflies.

  “I just wanted to say, gentlemen,” he said with a savage joviality, “welcome to your new home. Don’t be lonely. We’re rounding up other company for you and we’ll have more tomorrow. And after that—more. And after that—more. So you won’t be alone. After all,” he added with a sudden, humorless chuckle, “we don’t want you to be alone. That might drive you insane!”

  And with an elaborately sarcastic bow and wave he hopped back in his car and zoomed away.

  Had anyone been there to observe he would have seen that for a few moments after Fred Van Ackerman left there was a certain undecided milling about, a hesitation, almost a holding back as though the wardens could not quite bring themselves to do what they had been ordered to do. But the observer, if such there had been, might have known that there was no cause for concern. The wardens did indeed have their orders, and as with anything, next time it would be easier, and after that, routine.

  “Get along,” the one who was apparently in charge said at last. “Get along in. All of you.”

  And presently, dazed, stumbling a bit, prodded by the guns of their captors, the miserable little group obeyed. As it passed out of sight and the heavy gate began to close, one last anguished cry, so desperate and filled with pain that it would have moved the observer, had observer there been, came from the lips of Walter Dobius.

  “We did it!” he cried. “We did it! We did it! We d—”

  But who he meant by “we,” and what it was that he thought “we” had done, was never to be divulged, for at that point he was summarily, and no doubt roughly, choked off. The gates clanged shut and no further sound escaped the walls of St. Elizabeth’s.

  FAMED COLUMNIST, TOP PRESS COLLEAGUES JUDGED UNBALANCED BY PUBLIC HEALTH SERVICE DOCTORS. WALTER DOBIUS, OTHERS TAKEN TO ST. E’S ON COMPLAINT OF DOMESTIC TRANQUILITY BOARD AND JUSTICE DEPARTMENT SPECIAL BRANCH. PSYCHIATRIC TREATMENT EXPECTED TO LAST SEVERAL MONTHS. OFFICIALS PREDICT REHABILITATION WILL BE SUCCESSFUL SO MEDIA BIGWIGS CAN RETURN TO “HELPFUL AND CONSTRUCTIVE ROLES IN PUBLIC LIFE.”

  “It is more in sadness than in anger,” the Times said in its lead editorial, “that we print the news that columnist Walter Dobius and other formerly prominent figures in American journalism, including several from this newspaper, have been confined to a mental institution for treatment because of their inflammatory and clearly unbalanced attacks on the President of the United States and his policies for world peace.

  “In some other era, when the press was less earnestly and patriotically dedicated to the success of those policies, this newspaper and others might have professed alarm and concern at such an action by the government. Today, knowing how desperate is the situation in which we find ourselves, and how imperative is complete and unquestioning support for the President, we can only applaud, however regretfully, a step which is clearly in the best interests both of the government and of the journalistic figures concerned.

  “There has been little doubt for some time that these men have been approaching a state of genuine mental disturbance in their writings and commentaries upon the President. It is for their own good, therefore, as well as for the country’s, that they should receive the kind of superbly skilled and highly effective psychiatric rehabilitation which the government plans to provide for them. They will emerge, in due course, restored to sanity, restored to balance, restored to their rightful places as loyal and fervent supporters of a great President and his great policies.

  “Their incarceration will be temporary, their treatment profoundly good for them, their re-entry into public life in a new and more constructive mood a boon to all Americans. We applaud the government’s action, which was, saddening though it is to admit, well-deserved and long overdue.… ”

  Similarly spoke the Post:

  “The commitment of Walter Dobius and other former major figures of American journalism, including some from this paper, to temporary incarceration and intensive psychiatric rehabilitation in St. Elizabeth’s is, in our opinion, an unfortunate but necessary step by the government in the best interests of all Americans.

  “For too long certain reactionary forces that had worked themselves into the upper echelons of the media have been writing with hysteria and deliberate malice toward President Jason and his peace policies. If those policies were to succeed, which all patriotic and law-abiding Americans devoutly hope they will, it was imperative that such attacks must cease. And cease they have, and in an effective yet genuinely humane manner which can only bring good to the men involved, and can only reflect credit upon the government responsible.

  “If there was ever any valid doubt as to the wisdom of the Help America law, this action by the Jason Administration removes it. It proves that the law, despite the fears of the fainthearted, can be, and is being, enforced in the best interests of all the people.

  “Under this law, men whose published writings have proved them clearly and demonstrably unbalanced are now going to be afforded, at government expense, the most compassionate and thorough mental rehabilitation. They are going to be returned, once their aberrations have been successfully removed, to an honored, respected and loyal place in American society where they will be able to devote their great abilities, as they should, to the constructive and complete support of the President and his policies. They will be, we predict, genuinely and publicly grateful for the considerate treatment they have received—a treatment which, in its compassion and forbearance, should prove an example to the world.

  “It is proof, once again, that American democracy, for all its imperfections, does work.… ”

  And that evening, on the “Opinion” segment of the news roundup, the successor of Frankly Unctuous, a suave and earnest young man with an appealing manner and a skillful turn of word, conferred his accolade too:

  “Washington is thoughtful yet proud tonight: thoughtful because some of the nation’s leading media figures must undergo a temporary and well-deserved psychiatric rehabilitation to bring them into line with the best interests and unanimous thinking of the American people—proud that there is an Administration in office possessing sufficient compassion and sufficient tolerance to provide them, freely and generously, with much-needed help for aberrations that were becoming increasingly dangerous to the country.

  “Walter Dobius, our own Frankly Unctuous, the editors of the Times and the Post and their colleagues across the country—plus those others from the media, from the academic and theatrical worlds, from the world of business and industry, even from the Congress itself who are, we understand, slated soon to undergo the same generous assistance at the hands of a kindly government—are not, all observers here agree, bad men. They have simply been misguided. They have simply been led astray by evil, reactionary, anti-democratic influences. They have simply been suborned and seduced into a way of thinking and a way of writing which could have resulted, if left untreated, in a most desperate weakening of American democracy.

  “Now American democracy has the opportunity to emerge strengthened and made more hopeful by the rehabilitation of these valuable, if misguided, citizens. The event is proof anew, if proof were needed, that the forces of American liberalism, acting through a liberal American President, can always find the solution for the nation’s problems, when given half a chance.… ”

  But of course there were, as always with any forward-looking innovation in American life, the gripers and the car
pers and the holders back, unwilling to accept the wisdom of the government and the manifest destiny of the people.

  Some of them, perhaps because of their youth and lack of maturity, became quite violent about it.

  “But you can’t do this to the Times!” Bronnie Bronson cried, his voice rising to a near shout in the Capitol office of the president pro tempore, down the hall from the Senate floor. “I grew up on the Times. I have read the Times all my life. You can’t do this to them! Or to anybody! It’s undemocratic! It’s dictatorial! It’s—it’s just plain horrible!”

  “Sure, Bronnie-boy,” the president pro tempore said with a lazily amused agreement, “but it isn’t illegal, is it? You guided that bill through the House, didn’t you, buster? You told off poor old Bill Abbott and his reactionary colleagues. You beat the drums for Ted Jason. You helped to pass the law. So what’s your gripe? Can’t you take it?”

  “We never meant it to be like this!” Bronnie protested, so desperately earnest and upset that Fred Van Ackerman could not refrain from grinning openly in his face. Not that Fred wanted to refrain, because if there was any type he couldn’t stand it was this wide-eyed, lily-livered, namby-pamby, games-playing Babes-in-Toyland liberal type. Fred wasn’t playing games any longer, and it annoyed him intensely to run into these innocents who managed to convince themselves anybody still ought to be.