Homeland

by John Jakes

  As he was shutting his locker he noticed a white paper lying at the very back of the shelf. A folded note. The hair on his neck started to prickle. He waited until two older men left the room, then quickly opened the note.

  LAKE ST BRIDGE 5:30, URGENT

  He’d never seen the big slanted handwriting before. But he knew whose it was. He slammed the locker and ran out, filled with dread.

  He leaned on the railing of the Lake Street bridge spanning the north branch of the Chicago River. A smell of garbage and human waste rose off the water. In places the river sprouted thickets of masts; vessels tied up at piers of lumber yards or commercial warehouses.

  A coal barge passed under the bridge, tooting its whistle. Silver-gray clouds alternately hid the sun and revealed it as a fiery white disk. Whenever the clouds thinned that way, the river’s surface glowed with greasy rainbows.

  Nearby, the clock tower of St. Meinrad’s Catholic Church rang six. Joe Junior decided he’d wait ten more minutes. He gazed at the fouled river and watched a dead dog float by, trailing a streak of blood black as oil.

  “Don’t turn around. Don’t use my name. Don’t say nothing.”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Benno’s profile, and a torn straw hat protecting his bald head. Benno settled his elbows on the rail like a friend stopping to chat. He was haggard, yellowish bags showing under his queer Oriental eyes.

  “They changed the damn locks at the brewery.”

  “I know.”

  A squad of federal infantry went marching by, red-faced and perspiring in their blue cravanette uniforms. The sergeant shouted cadence.

  Benno talked softly, with a genial smile. “It’s time for you to be a good sojer like those boys. Time for you to help the cause.”

  Joe Junior’s mouth dried out. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Hey, just a little something easy. Find a certain key tomorrow. Sneak it out with you at quitting time. When it’s dark, but before ten o’clock, unlock the door of the bottling house. Leave it open. That’s all.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Gonna show your pop that he can’t fire honest workingmen just for standing up for trade union solidarity.”

  “Show him? How?”

  Benno thumped the rail. “Propaganda of the deed. I said we’d strike a blow, nobody believed me. You din’t believe me.”

  He remembered the Indiana dune, the dynamite blasting the shanty into the sky. He was trembling, but he had to speak. “I won’t help you if it means hurting anybody. I won’t be a party to murdering anyone. If you mean to plant a bomb where men are working, I just won’t—”

  “You can quit worrying, because we’re gonna strike our blow where it won’t hurt nobody, just wreck a lot of equipment. The bottling house—the pipes running to the brewhouse—at night, when it’s shut down. Cost your old man plenty, but no lives lost, I don’t want that neither. The coppers and sojers on my tail with a noose? Hell no.”

  Joe Junior digested that. It was bad, but not as bad as he’d feared it might be. “Can you promise me you won’t try anything at the brewhouse?” The brewhouse had a shift working throughout the night.

  “Sure, Joey. Swear to God.” Benno held up his right hand.

  “How will you do it?”

  “You leave that to me. Part of it is, we got to make sure old George Hoch’s on his rounds someplace else.” He waited a moment. “What d’ya say, Joey?”

  His stomach hurt. “I say it’s hard, what you’re asking is hard. The brewery is still my father’s property.”

  “Property.” Benno blew a big gob of spit over the rail. “Bullshit. Property is the curse of the world.”

  “Maybe, but he’s put his life into that place.”

  Benno’s voice dropped. “You saying you ain’t going to help us after all? Jesus, what a turn. You said you were with us. All along you said that. What are you, a liar? I thought you was a man, thinking for yourself. Nah. You’re a baby.”

  “Damn it, Benno, don’t say that.”

  “How else should I say it, Joey?” Benno answered with a sweet smile. “Have you got balls, or were you just fucking with us?”

  Joe Junior rubbed his mouth with his knuckles. He saw his father’s stern eyes. Saw Rosie covered with her father’s blood.

  Propaganda of the deed. He’d studied the literature; convinced himself it was the best way to deal with a rotten and unjust system, wasn’t that true? He couldn’t let consideration for his family’s property paralyze him. He had to think of the importance of striking a blow, sending a signal to Joe Crown and all his plutocrat friends …

  He could do it with no one getting hurt.

  “Joey?”

  “All right, yes.”

  Benno laughed. “Good. Knew we could count on you.”

  “Don’t be so damn cheerful, I’ve got to figure out how.”

  “Sure, Joey, take your time.”

  Joe Junior watched a hog’s carcass float by, turning slowly among a garnish of melon rinds. He rubbed his fingertips against his palms. “Mr. Schildkraut keeps spare keys on a board on his wall. Each key on its own hook. His office is never locked. I could get the key when he goes downstairs to the Stube for his dinner. He always goes right at noon, you can set a clock by it.”

  “Just don’t get caught.”

  “You think I want to go to jail? No more than you do.” He was a little calmer, thinking it out, convincing himself. “Don’t worry. I’ll have the door unlocked by ten.”

  Benno draped his arm across Joe Junior’s shoulders. “You got the stuff after all.”

  He sneaked into the house and pleaded a bellyache so he wouldn’t have to speak to anyone, eat supper, risk a show of guilt before the fact. He knew he wouldn’t sleep that night and he didn’t. Lying awake, he kept seeing images of his mother. It had to be done, sometimes men had to take a strong, even dangerous stand. He prayed to heaven she’d understand and forgive him if she ever found out.

  The night was humid and still. As he brought the key to the lock, his hand shook. Sweat made the key slippery. It dropped and landed in the alley with a clink loud enough to be heard on the moon.

  He darted looks up and down the alley that ran parallel with Larrabee Street, separating the bottling house and the main section of the brewery, where scattered lights shone. At the second floor front, a shadow passed between a window and a lamp. Mr. Schildkraut, working late again. Back here, where he skulked with the key, there were no lights at all.

  Because he knew the daily routines of his father and Fred Schildkraut and most of the other men in the front office, it hadn’t been hard to pinch the key while Schildkraut dined in the outdoor garden. He carried a brewer’s book, as though he’d come into the office building on some work-related errand. Stefan Zwick appeared in the hall and bumped into him just seconds after he stole out of Schildkraut’s office with the key. Joe greeted Zwick, waving the brewer’s book, and hurried to the stairs.

  At the door of the bottling house, he listened. All quiet. Old George Hoch, the watchman, had walked through this part of the brewery twenty minutes ago. He wouldn’t return until his next circuit, around eleven. When old George came shuffling across the alley to inspect the rear buildings, Joe Junior hid behind some bales of straw in the carriage yard on the southwest corner of the property, beyond the bottling house. He found one buggy there, the horse with a feed bag on its muzzle. Schildkraut’s horse and buggy.

  The horse nickered as he was crawling behind the straw bales. Moments later, the watchman poked his head into the yard. Joe Junior reached for the stolen key in his pocket, clutching it so hard it cut his palm.

  Old George withdrew from the yard and ambled away, humming …

  Joe Junior took a firmer grip on the key and poked it into the keyhole. He experienced a fearful moment when it wouldn’t turn. Then, with a click, the door unlocked.

  Gaining confidence, he slipped around the corner, along the north wall of the building, until
he was almost at the back. There he sat down to wait. He rested his head against the bricks and closed his eyes. It was too late for regret, or retreat.

  He had to relieve himself. He tried not to think about it. With a start, he raised his head. Someone had hissed or whispered.

  He clambered to his feet. Against the lights of the office building, he saw two men silhouetted in the alley. He could discern the curve of Benno’s bald head. The other man was unrecognizable.

  He called out softly, “All clear.” Benno and the second man vanished into the bottling house. What were they using? Dynamite? An infernal machine? How long would it take to place it? Need he stay? Somehow he felt he should.

  Pressure in his bladder worsened. He endured it as long as he could, then braced his left hand against the bricks and unbuttoned his pants. The stream sounded like a waterfall.

  A grime-coated window to his left showed a faint light inside the bottling house. Perhaps they’d lit a candle to aid them.

  Then he heard something that caused him to panic. Footsteps in the brick drive across the alley. This time the silhouette was that of a man in a summer boater, with a cane. The man was whistling “Daisy Belle,” the bicycle song.

  Schildkraut going home.

  Would he see the dim orange light moving behind the window? Joe Junior wanted to throw himself in front of the window, hide it with his body …

  Apparently the angle was wrong; Schildkraut didn’t notice. He passed out of sight behind the bottling house, bound down the alley for the buggy park, whistling his tune. Joe Junior rested his forehead against the bricks. If this was the practice of anarchism, it was a very frightening business.

  He caught his breath. The footsteps had stopped.

  Rigid, he watched the corner of the building. Schildkraut reappeared. Perhaps his senses had belatedly registered some detail amiss. Schildkraut looked both ways, and back at the office building. Still visible in the alley, he raised his cane. Poked the door of the bottling house. It swung in, the hinge squealing.

  Schildkraut jumped forward, disappearing. The firefly light went out. “Who is that?” Schildkraut called. “Come forward, show yourselves.” Joe Junior ran toward the corner by the alley, arms pumping. Inside he heard others running, and Schildkraut continuing to call out. Then came sounds of a struggle and a strident voice he didn’t recognize:

  “Benno—the fuse!”

  Joe reached the bottling house door. A huge roar and a sheet of flame blew him backward across the alley. A flying brick struck his forehead and everything went black.

  Firelight and smoke. Screams and shouts. He opened his eyes.

  The bottling house was in ruins, most of its north and east walls blown down. Bright flames were consuming conveyor and crowning equipment that was twisted like metal spaghetti.

  A huge beam pinned his lower legs. A heap of brick and mortar chunks covered him nearly to his neck. Men raced back and forth between Joe and the blaze. They didn’t even know he was there in the wreckage.

  A round-shouldered man appeared against the leaping fire, waving a silvery pistol. It was old George, the watchman. “They were all trapped inside. They’re dead. Mr. Schildkraut, Strauss, some other man. All dead. Oh my God, my God, my God.”

  50

  Paul

  THAT SAME FRIDAY NIGHT, weary, Paul went to bed soon after supper. Cousin Joe had been absent for the meal; no one seemed to know where he’d gone, and Uncle Joe was cross about it.

  Paul tossed restlessly for a while, thinking of Julie. He was anxious to see her, to tell her of his incredible good fortune in finding Mr. Rooney again. He dozed off and had slept perhaps half an hour when he was jolted awake by a heavy weight crashing onto the bed in the dark.

  “Carl! What the devil are you doing?”

  “Something bad’s happened. Papa left a while ago, and Mama’s awake and upset. She won’t say anything except that Papa got a call from the brewery. What’s it mean?”

  “How should I know? I have been sleeping. Ask your brother.”

  “He’s still gone.”

  “This late?”

  “Uh-huh. Paul, I’m scared.” Carl Crown would be twelve years old in November. Physically he was a young ox, but this night his voice had the thin high-pitched sound of a boy half his age.

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation, nothing really wrong. You’d better go back to bed.”

  “Could I stay here for a while? I don’t mind the dark. I’ll be quiet.”

  “All right, if you’d feel better.”

  Carl sat in the corner chair, which creaked. Paul couldn’t go back to sleep.

  Sometime around midnight, a huge commotion erupted downstairs. Voices; heavy footfalls. Paul and his cousin ran into the hall to see people rushing up the stairs. First Nicky Speers, with Cousin Joe lying in his outstretched arms like a stricken Christ Paul had once seen in a Catholic Pietà. Cousin Joe’s face was bloody, and gray dust coated his skin and hair and clothing. His left shoe was twisted at a bizarre angle.

  Nicky hurried past, followed by Uncle Joe; the same dust covered his fine black suit. He didn’t even look at Paul and Carl. Aunt Ilsa came next, wearing her nightrobe.

  “Aunt Ilsa, what has happened?”

  “A terrible accident at the brewery. Some sort of infernal device in the bottling house. Three men have been killed, and Joey was hurt, we don’t know how badly yet. Please go to bed, both of you.”

  She hurried on. Paul and Carl stared at each other. The door of Cousin Joe’s room closed.

  The house was in an uproar for most of the night. Outsiders arrived. The first was Dr. Plattweiler, wearing a fine clawhammer coat but no cravat. Carrying his satchel, he stumbled up the stairs.

  When the doctor left, Fritzi forced herself into Cousin Joe’s room. Her mother put her out a minute later. She and Paul and Carl whispered in the hall. Yes, Cousin Joe was all right; just some bad scrapes and bruises and a wrenched ankle.

  “But I’ve never seen Papa in such a rage. What did Joey do?”

  No one knew the answer.

  Two police detectives in suits and derbies arrived about half past one. Uncle Joe met with them in the study. They were gone by two, but fifteen minutes later a reporter from the Tribune rang the bell. When Manfred answered in his nightshirt and robe, the reporter managed to slip past him into the foyer. Uncle Joe ran from his study and wrestled the reporter out the front door, cursing him. Paul and Carl and Fritzi peered down from the second floor landing, utterly confounded.

  “Whatever has happened,” Paul said, “it must be a terrible thing.”

  He was up at half past six, to brew a cup of tea. Yawning, Louise Volzenheim came out of the pantry. “I have not packed a lunch. You’re not to go to work today. Mr. Crown is shutting down all but essential operations.”

  Paul sank onto a stool. Manfred came in, belting his satin robe. Paul looked at the cook, then at the steward. “Can anyone tell me what happened?”

  Louise looked away. Manfred spoke. “I’m not reticent about saying it. A building blew up. Two anarchists were killed. One was that vile fellow Strauss. Another victim was Mr. Crown’s brewmaster. Master Joe unlocked the building for the bombers, or so Dr. Plattweiler confided before he left. I don’t know whether he did it alone or in collusion with some of his radical friends.”

  He fixed an accusing eye on Paul.

  About seven, Louise prepared a breakfast tray for Cousin Joe. Aunt Ilsa, still in her nightclothes, asked Paul to take it to him. His aunt moved and spoke in a dazed way. He had never known her to look so sad.

  He climbed the stairs with the tray. Silver domes kept the sausages and bread warm. A white china pot spouted steam and the aroma of strong coffee. The few lights burning on the second floor cast soft pools on the carpet. After the commotion of the night, a dispiriting silence had settled on the house.

  He pulled up short at his cousin’s door; from inside came Uncle Joe’s loud voice:

  “I am not going to file ch
arges against my own son and have the whole damned story dragged through the courts and press. But make no mistake. I hold you responsible for this atrocity. For Fred Schildkraut’s death.”

  “Pop, I only unlocked the door. Mr. Schildkraut came along at the wrong time.”

  “I’m damned if you can shift the blame so easily.”

  Paul edged closer to the door, trying to keep the cutlery on the tray from rattling.

  “Benno promised me no one would be hurt. He said he just wanted to damage some machinery. That’s the God’s truth …” Cousin Joe’s voice trailed off, utterly lacking conviction.

  “And you believed Benno? You believed a lawless lying red anarchist? Christus bewahr uns!” Christ save us. “I have read about dupes of the reds, but I never imagined I’d have one in my own family. How could you let yourself be seduced? Poisoned by that filthy lawless crowd?”

  “I didn’t mean for anyone to die!”

  “But they did, you can’t bring them back, and you can’t escape the guilt, it’s yours forever. May God forgive you. I can’t.”

  Paul gasped when the door opened suddenly. Uncle Joe stormed out, his shirt collar hanging askew, two vest buttons in the wrong buttonholes—Paul had never seen him so disarrayed. Uncle Joe shouted at him.

  “Have you been eavesdropping?”

  “Sir, I was asked to bring this tray for—”

  “Give it to me!”

  “Sir, Joe is my friend, I would like to speak to—”

  “I said leave this!” His uncle was shouting like a wild man. He grabbed the tray. Paul let go, but Uncle Joe didn’t have a good grasp. With a huge crash of shattering dishes, clangs of silver domes falling, the contents of the tray splattered the wall. The broken china pot gurgled coffee onto the carpet.

  Uncle Joe yanked the door shut behind him. “Stay out of there, I order you. After what he did, he’s not to be visited, or entertained, by you or by anyone.” He stormed down the stairs. “Manfred! Helga! Where are you?”

  In his room, Paul determined to see his cousin no matter what his uncle said. He waited an hour, made sure the upper hall was clear, everyone else downstairs, then stole to the door of Joe Junior’s bedroom. After a quick soft knock he slipped inside.