Homeland

by John Jakes

  Ilsa said nothing to Joe of this discussion. She didn’t even intimate that she’d taken part. If she opposed the war openly, then she opposed him. And she wouldn’t do that, now his decision was made and the papers signed by the military authorities.

  It was cowardly, her silence. She knew that. But she’d lost her son. She’d lost her nephew. She couldn’t stand to lose her husband’s love as well.

  Ilsa had laundered all seven suits of underwear and hung them up to dry during supper. Joe had eaten hurriedly, pleading the need to check through the items he’d laid out for his valise. She nodded to agree but he didn’t see; he was already gone from the dining room.

  She had helped Helga wash and dry and stack the dishes. On her way upstairs she stepped into the large family room, to the small whatnot formerly in Pauli’s bedroom. She’d moved it downstairs and placed on it some of the anonymous tokens she was certain Joe Junior had sent to her. The little candy oranges in the miniature crate had a slightly brown cast. On top of the whatnot rested half of a roughly spherical geode, its tiny quartz crystals winking and sparkling like the suns and moons and planets of some fairy universe.

  Where is he? she wondered as she touched the rough, sparkling cavity. Dear God, let him be safe—happy—even if I never see him again.

  She had begun her ironing at a few minutes past nine. She was still at it when a downstairs clock faintly chimed ten. The ironing room was hot and sticky. She’d opened both small round windows, but no air was stirring in the May night.

  Perspiration gathered on her chin as she worked. Occasionally a drop fell. She ironed with relentless zeal, finishing each garment perfectly, folding it, then pressing it lightly again so that it would pack well. Though she sometimes felt rebellious about the duties her German upbringing forced on wives, tonight she did this mundane work with a furious energy.

  Why does he have to go? she thought as she swept the iron back and forth. Of course she knew. He was a patriotic man, a man of principle. The war of the rebellion had been a major experience in his life, a crusade undertaken with high moral purpose. There was something of the same spirit moving in him now.

  But there were other motives. In recent years his loving heart had clashed too fiercely with his Germanic passion for authority, order, control, with calamitous results for the family. And his sense of guilt must be a terrible burden. All of this military preparation might be his attempt to overcome the guilt feelings, regain control of his disordered world, put it back together, and prove that his beloved Ordnung was not altogether destructive.

  Ilsa also believed Joe was disappointed and bored with the ordinary flow and detail of his life at home. Which meant he was disappointed and bored with her. He was certainly angry with her, even though he tried to mask it. She’d argued her principles, her opinions, too often. Especially on the subject of his business.

  She could find only one small consolation in what was happening. Better a blue Army uniform for her dear Joe than another woman.

  Yet even that thought wasn’t overly reassuring. Joe was not setting off for some G.A.R. encampment, some jolly outing with old veterans who told lies by a camp fire and whose greatest risk might be drinking too much and falling down. Her Joe was putting on a uniform for another war.

  There would be shooting and killing. Men maimed for life, or dumped into hastily dug graves, never to come home to loved ones. A mischance—standing in the wrong spot at the wrong moment, turning left instead of right on some jungle trail—any of a thousand things done in the haste of war could bring the fatal bullet. Take him away from her forever. The ultimate loss, beyond her power to bear …

  And there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing except sit on the hard stool, in the heat, under a glaring electric bulb, ironing his underwear with love and stubborn devotion.

  Part Eight

  Tampa

  1898

  Now, Senator, may we please have war?

  1898

  Assistant Secretary of the Navy THEODORE ROOSEVELT

  HOW DO YOU LIKE THE JOURNALS WAR?

  1898

  Hearst newspaper headline

  88

  Dutch

  IT WAS ALMOST DARK when the train chugged into Tampa.

  Long vistas of mean unpainted houses lined shabby streets of rutted sand. Here and there fronds of scrawny palm trees stirred in damp wind off Tampa Bay. Paul kept yawning. He was worn out, famished, and dirty.

  The train stopped in the middle of a downtown business block. A small depot could be seen on a nearby corner. All the soldiers left the car. Leaning out, Paul saw the other passenger coaches emptying similarly. Mounted men and supply wagons struggled through the sand as night came down. The conductor stuck his head in the door. “Next and final stop will be the hotel. Five minutes.”

  The train went across a railway and wagon bridge spanning a river, then through palmetto groves and another area of ramshackle houses lit by dim street lamps a block apart. Jimmy said, “God, what a sorry-looking burg.” Paul agreed. The mighty United States Army appeared to be mustering in a backwater of civilization.

  Then the train passed through elaborate iron gates onto a siding. Jimmy sat up, grinning. Paul looked out and was amazed to behold an Arabian Nights illustration come to life.

  He was gazing at the spectacular Tampa Bay Hotel.

  Henry B. Plant, founder of the Plant System of railroads, shipping lines, and hotels, had built a magnificent winter resort on the west side of the Hillsborough River. The hotel was sited on a six-acre tract riotously planted with palms, orchids, dogwood, bougainvillea, orange trees, lemon trees, lime trees, grapefruit trees, banana trees.

  The main building, long, rectangular, and five stories high, was made of dark red brick. An enormous silver onion dome rose from each corner and, in between, minarets crowned by silver half-moons. Moorish arches framed the doorways, and smaller ones ornamented the guest room windows above. Verandas wide as two lane-streets, ablaze with multicolored electric lights and embellished with wooden gingerbread, ran all around the building. Couples strolled; men in uniform took the air in white wooden rockers. Through the car window came muted laughter and band music. The floodlit minarets shone brighter than the misty moon. Paul’s first thought was, I have to buy a picture postcard of this place, otherwise no one will believe it exists.

  Jimmy, too, was impressed. “How many rooms in this place?” he called to the conductor.

  “Five hundred and eleven. Looks like a sultan’s palace, don’t it? Wait till you get a glim by daylight. They got a dozen tame peacocks wandering around.”

  “Peacocks? I never seen one of those before.”

  “The hotel’s usually closed this time of year, but Mr. Plant, he’s a patriot, he opened it right away when Washington said they needed it. You boys are looking at headquarters for the Fifth Army Corps.”

  As they toted their grips up the aisle, Paul stopped to ask another question. “How large is Tampa, sir?”

  “Fourteen, fifteen thousand, counting the spies—the Cubans—in West Tampa and Ybor City. Now that the soldiers are here, population’s probably double. They’re camping everyplace. You boys staying at the hotel?”

  “Yes. We are moving picture camera operators.”

  “Well, you’re damn lucky you’re bunking here instead of in the open with the sand fleas and no-see-ums.”

  Paul hurried to catch up with Jimmy, who was already out of the car and happy for a change. “My God, Dutch, there’s women all over the place.”

  “Time for them later. We should get our equipment from the baggage car.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot, you’re in charge now.” Paul spun around.

  “Look here, I’m tired of your sneers.”

  “Too bad. As long as I’m on this rotten job, you better not order me around like some dinge from the cotton fields. Because if you do—”

  “If I do, then what?”

  “I’m not saying. Just don’t push me. Don’t be a chum
p and things’ll be okay.”

  “I will try to remember that.” Paul pivoted and walked toward the head of the train, fighting his anger. He should buy his so-called assistant a return ticket to Chicago immediately. He’d get along better doing all the work himself.

  He had two of the crates off the baggage car and resting in the sand when Jimmy came straggling along, whistling. Paul curbed the impulse to hit him.

  Colored porters in livery brought four-wheeled carts and tagged the crates for transfer to the hotel’s baggage room. Paul tipped them, then asked, “Where do we register?”

  “There, sir.” The black man indicated doors at the near end of the building. “The west entrance is for train passengers, the one at the east end for carriages coming over the bridge. Go straight in, down the long hall to the rotunda, you’ll see the desk.”

  They followed a gravel path to the veranda and saw a multitude of different uniforms, and attractive young women in handsome gowns; women with tawny skin and ravishing black hair. Jimmy said, “If that’s Cuban sugar, I want some.”

  “On your own time,” Paul snapped.

  Inside, a great long hallway stretched to the rotunda, where tiny figures could be seen. The hall was decorated with tall carved chairs, Chinese jars, small statues, miniature potted palms. Doors to several parlors stood open. In one, ladies were playing cards; in another, officers and a civilian were using writing desks. The doors of these public rooms were rich mahogany, with inlaid satin panels.

  Paul was so awed by the rotunda, he snatched off his straw hat as if he’d entered a cathedral. The rotunda was perhaps seventy feet across; finely carpeted, brilliantly lit with electrics. The walls were hung with tapestries, large paintings, mirrors of rose-tinted glass. Granite columns supported an open gallery on the second floor.

  The rotunda was crowded. Men and women in evening attire; Navy officers in cool white duck mingling with their Army counterparts, who wore the heavy blue better suited to Alaska. A few officers were dressed in more casual khaki; several of them carried Western-style sombreros. Could they be part of the 1st Volunteer Cavalry, the regiment of cowboys, socialites, and college athletes he’d read about? The commander was a Colonel Wood, an experienced Indian fighter.

  He noticed two grim-faced officers emerging from a doorway marked Telegraph Office. A long bulletin board was set up against one section of the wall, papered with news clippings, telegraph messages, a miscellany of official orders and documents. One of the officers pinned a yellow telegraph flimsy to the board. Even with that, the scene was festive, not warlike.

  At the desk, Paul slid his card over the green marble. The clerk, middle-aged and brusque, said, “The Luxograph Company. Your rooms are ready. Fifth floor. Floors two and three are reserved for senior officers or those with families. The daily rate is four dollars, which includes meals but no extras such as spirituous beverages. The reservation form says we are to bill everything to your company in Chicago.”

  “Yes, correct,” Paul said as he signed the register. Jimmy was leaning on the marble counter, watching women. Some were stout, quite gray, and escorted by older officers. But any number were unattached. A few, matronly, wore the uniform of the Salvation Army. The younger ones were the kind they’d seen outside, attractive girls from Tampa or perhaps Cuba itself.

  Paul nudged his partner. Jimmy took the pen and managed to splatter ink on the otherwise clean page. The clerk said, “You will find the dining room that way, at the end of the east corridor, through the Solarium and to your left. You’re too late for regular service this evening, dinner is promptly at six. But food is available in the gents’ rathskeller downstairs or in the Oriental Annex. The Annex is between this building and the boat house on the river. During the day the floors of the Annex are taken up so you may bathe in our pool.”

  Jimmy’s response was an amazed “Sweet Jesus and Mary.” The offended clerk pinged a silver bell. Another black porter—there seemed to be scores—loaded their valises on a small handcart and took the room keys. The man was sixty or so, with tired brown eyes.

  “Elevator this way, gen’mun.”

  They passed a short Japanese officer in a colorful uniform talking to a civilian wearing a frock coat. The civilian was jotting in a notebook. Both men were smoking strong-smelling cigars. Paul was surprised to find he liked the aroma.

  The main elevator was near the grand staircase. Others were located at each end of the long corridor, the porter told them. The open cage was beautifully done in gilded curves and scrolls. “Handsome work,” Paul said.

  “Otis,” the porter said. “Mr. Plant, he buys the best.”

  The car brought them up to the fifth floor, and another equally long hall. The porter stopped to show them a closed door. “This here’s your bathroom. One bath for every three guests, you won’t find ’nother Florida hotel with that kind of comfort.” He stepped to the next door and unlocked it. “You first, sir,” he said to Jimmy.

  Even Mr. Plant’s smallest guest room, though appallingly hot, was well appointed with an Oriental carpet, a single bed with spotless linen, and a dressing table. A small bedside table held an upright telephone and a paper fan imprinted with the name of the hotel. The room was lit by a ceiling fixture with three electric bulbs, and two more on the dressing table mirror. The room had a radiator and small fireplace, neither one needed tonight.

  “Put my bag on the bed, boy.” Head averted, the porter did as Jimmy ordered.

  Paul asked if Tampa weather was always like this. The porter assured him it wasn’t. Temperature and humidity were much too high for May; things would improve. Paul supposed it the usual cheery propaganda of a resort. Jimmy fanned himself. “Before that happens we’re liable to fry up here.”

  Jimmy followed along to Paul’s room, which was identical. “Here, and thank you.” Paul handed the porter twenty-five cents. The man smiled and thanked him warmly. As the porter left, Jimmy said, “Damned if I’ll pay a nigger extra to do what he’s supposed to do.”

  Paul sailed his straw hat onto the bed. “Are you hungry?”

  “Nah. I want to look over some of that cunny downstairs.”

  “Suit yourself.” Paul unbuttoned his sticky shirt. “We should unpack the crates first thing in the morning. Start filming as soon as we can.”

  “Yeah, sure, okay. Knock on my door. If a woman answers, leave.” When he got no smile from Paul, he said, “Just don’t make it too early. Seven, seven thirty—”

  “Six.”

  “Six? You may be up then, but not me. I’ll see you when I see you.” He walked out. A moment later Paul heard him lock his, door and go down the hall.

  Paul washed in the separate bathroom. He combed his unruly hair with water, put on a fresh shirt, and set out to explore. He took the stairs instead of the elevator. At the landing between the gallery and the rotunda he passed a wall mirror wide enough for half a dozen ladies and gentlemen to examine their appearance, full length, at the same time.

  At the newsstand he picked up a free brochure about the resort and bought a colored picture postcard showing the main building. He said to the clerk, “I would like to try a good Tampa cigar.”

  “I recommend these, Guerra y Diaz. Factory’s in Ybor City. Only five cents apiece, but excellent Cuban leaf and wrapper. Are you a regular cigar smoker?” Paul said no. “Don’t draw the smoke down into your lungs, savor it in your mouth and then exhale, you’ll find that very satisfying.”

  Paul went down to the lower level, where he found the barber shop, the masseuse, the ladies’ mineral water baths, the office of the house physician, and finally the place he wanted, the rathskeller. There was an entrance from the corridor, as well as a stairway coming directly from the floor above. Slow-swirling smoke and the click of billiard balls came through an arch near the bar.

  He picked up a menu and was surprised to find Armour beef and Big “V” pork sausages listed. The barkeep said Armour, Swift, and Big “V” all had branch plants in Florida. Vanderhoff�
�s was in Ocala.

  Paul asked for a lager. Out of the pipes came a foaming stein of Extra Pale from the Florida Brewing Company of Tampa. He ordered a lamb chop with stewed tomatoes and kidney beans plus a side dish of hot chowchow, an American pickle relish he’d grown to like. “And then nougat ice cream and black coffee, please.”

  “Take any table. The waiter’ll bring it.”

  He chose a small table in the corner. The beer was all right, but no match for Crown’s. Even exiled, he could admit that his uncle brewed a superior product.

  His food came, and as he ate, he read the brochure. Plant had opened the hotel in 1891, at a cost exceeding two million. Another five hundred thousand had gone into furnishings “personally selected by Mr. and Mrs. Plant during an extended tour of Europe.” Suites cost seventy-five a day.

  He tossed the brochure aside in favor of his Guerra y Diaz. He asked the barman for a cutter, snipped the end. He struck a match from a ceramic matchbox holder and lit up. Prepared for unpleasant consequences—coughing, choking, retching—he drew a little of the smoke into his mouth and rolled it around. Careful not to inhale, he let the smoke dribble out. He found its scent and warmth mellow and satisfying; there was a slight sting inside his mouth, but nothing worse.

  He put the cigar between his teeth and gently bit down. Leaving, he glanced at the backbar mirror. He liked the man he saw. With the cigar, that man possessed eine grosse Reife. A greater maturity. Definitely.

  He would buy more cigars in the morning.

  Outside the air was sweet but oppressively damp, blurring everything with a haze. The hour was growing late, the pathways less crowded. He strolled in the direction of the boat house. There, the brochure had informed him, guests could embark on a scenic cruise of the river in “electric launches of the latest design.”