Homeland

by John Jakes

  “I would like to speak with Mrs. Vanderhoff, please.”

  “She is in California for health reasons. The length of her stay is indefinite.”

  “Her daughter, then? Mrs. William Elstree—”

  “Mrs. Elstree has not been here. We know nothing of her whereabouts. Mrs. Vanderhoff has no contact with her. Good day.”

  He slammed the door.

  Wearily, Paul walked down to the curb. All right, it was settled. A dark part of him had guessed it would turn out this way. He would deliver the film to Shadow and, at the same time, give notice.

  He climbed the familiar stairs, smelling savory kitchen odors. He knocked at the kitchen door and walked in. Mary was at the stove, the colonel at the table in his undershirt, noisily sucking cabbage soup from his spoon.

  Mary reeled against the stove and nearly burned her hand. “Oh my God.”

  “Kid!” Shadow cried, jumping up, dropping his spoon, spilling soup, flinging his arms wide. “It’s you! Put those things down. Have some soup. Mary! A bowl, a spoon—look at him, he’s skinny as a hairpin. Food!”

  “Right away, Sid.”

  Paul set the canvas bag on the table. “I’d like to show you the pictures first. The weather ruined all the magazines but one. But that one is pretty good.”

  “If it’s half as good as what you sent, they’ll go wild at Pflaum’s. That stuff from Tampa—the orange groves, the cavalry drills, the alligator, and that coffee mill gun on the beach—Iz Pflaum was ready to kiss me when he saw the ticket lines. Come on, let’s look.”

  In the darkened parlor Shadow projected the print. Silent images of destruction and death flickered on the screen, casting a changing silvery pattern on the stunned faces of the colonel and Mary. Shadow continually voiced wonderment, heavily laced with oaths. Sitting next to Paul, Mary ran her hand up and down the inside of his leg, moaning, “Oh, no!” frequently. When the film ran out, Shadow flicked on the lights.

  “Kid—sensational. No other word for it.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.”

  “Were those men shooting real bullets?” Mary said.

  “All the time.”

  “And you were that close? A bullet could have gotten you! Why didn’t you hide?”

  “If I hid, how would I get the pictures?” He poked at his brown hair which, as usual, seemed to be sticking up in several directions. “Could I wash now, and have a bowl of soup?”

  “Anything you want,” the colonel cried, beaming.

  “Afterward I need to speak with you about something important.”

  Shadow took it hard. He begged Paul not to quit. He promised to raise his salary. Said he’d insist that Iz Pflaum use Paul’s name in advertisements; promote him as “the star camera operator” of American National Luxograph.

  “Kid, you’re an ace. You came through in style. I worried a lot after I sent you down there. Guess I had good reason.” Paul had told of his misadventures with Jimmy. “Federal marshals hauled him back to town with cuffs on. He’s in Cook County jail right now.”

  “Yes, I signed the charges,” Paul said, with no hint of pleasure, or rancor.

  “Little bastard’s crooked as a stick and mean as a snake. I should have spotted it, done something. Won’t you have to testify at the trial?”

  “I’m not sure. But if it’s necessary, I will.”

  Shadow toyed with his coffee mug. “I’ll be square with you. I was worried but also damn sore about all the expense money you were spending. Telegraphs! Cables! My God, you wrote novels, not messages!”

  “Sid,” Mary hissed.

  “All right, all right, we’ll forget it. It’s forgotten! Those pictures are incredible. I mean incredible. You’re a brave young man.” For once he sounded sincere. “Now I want to hear everything, every detail. Mary! More soup. Beer, coffee—whatever he wants. Anything!” he said, slapping the table like a prideful father.

  They talked for over three hours. At the end, Shadow dismissed the matter of Paul’s notice by saying they’d discuss it after the premier showing of “Conquest of the San Juan Hill.” All the issues could be resolved, money could take care of anything.

  Paul sighed, said he really needed to visit his family tonight, and fled down the stairs.

  In the great house at Michigan Avenue and Twentieth, all the family cried when he walked in with his valise.

  Fritzi cried and flung herself on the floor of the front parlor, so overcome was she. Carl cried, a few manly sniffles suitable for a burly football player not quite sixteen. Aunt Ilsa cried to overflowing. Louise from the kitchen cried. Manfred Blenkers didn’t cry, but he said, “Here, please, allow me,” and took Paul’s dirty, stained bag, then worked his hand like a pump handle.

  “Do you know the good news?” Aunt Ilsa said. “Your uncle will be home in a few days. He is in Tampa at this moment. All the volunteers are coming home. He will have ten days of leave, then go to Washington to report and muster out—oh my heavens, this is too much.” She fanned herself with her handkerchief.

  “I knew you were coming but not the exact moment. You must sit. You must rest. Supper will be ready soon.”

  She plunged into the kitchen and personally warmed the sauerbraten and dumplings left from Mittagessen; brought these to the table with Louise’s help and supplemented them with platters of wurst and cheese. Paul stuffed himself and drank two steins of Crown lager. Fritzi couldn’t wait to hear his war experiences, and when he had related just a few of them, she pretended to swoon with excitement. Twice.

  Later, Aunt Ilsa saw him to his old room and drew his bath. After he’d soaked and pulled on a flannel nightshirt and settled himself, she knocked and tiptoed in.

  “May I sit a moment, dear?”

  “Of course you may.” He hitched to one side under the coverlet. One of those delicious August cool spells had swept into Chicago, refreshing the air with a hint of the chill of autumn.

  “Oh, Paul. Dear Paul. Willkommen.” She threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely against her formidable bosom. “You met my Joe in this strange war. Patched things up, he said so in his telegram. How extraordinary. I’m so glad. What now for you? A good rest, yes? Then back to work making your films?”

  He drew a long breath. Shook his head. “I gave Colonel Shadow my notice this afternoon. I’m leaving for London as soon as possible. I’ll take a job there.”

  Aunt Ilsa rocked back. “London? But why? Your home is here. If not in this house—that I can understand—then America. America’s your home now, Paul.”

  “Nein, Tante Ilse. Mein zeitweiliges Heim nur.” My temporary home only. “The home I wanted was a home with Julie and she’s gone, no one knows where.”

  “A terrible tragedy, the death of her husband. Quite a scandal, too.” A desperate breathiness came into his aunt’s voice. “But please, don’t be hasty. We could hire an investigation agency to search for her, as we did for Joey, several times.”

  “But they didn’t find him.”

  She bowed her head. “No.”

  He took her hands in his. “You’ve been wondrously kind to me, Aunt Ilsa. We won’t be out of touch, ever. But I must leave this country. It’s time.”

  She searched his face for a long moment; saw he was determined. She rose, kissed his cheek, and gave a little motherly tug to the sheet, to make certain he was properly covered. She went out silently. Not until she was gone did he realize something was different.

  She hadn’t called him Pauli.

  114

  The General

  LATE AUGUST. MUNCHING ON a pickled herring, he tap-tapped his way from the hot kitchen to the stifling front hall, leaning on the cieba wood stick. He had slipped back into civilian garb, civilian life, easily enough. But his thigh wound hurt most of the time. He listed slightly when he walked.

  He checked the lock on the front door. He checked every door every night; Germanic habits of thoroughness didn’t change easily.

  He heard a footfall and discovered his dau
ghter peeping out of the music room. Fritzi was in her flannel nightdress, barefoot. She was seventeen now, still flat-bosomed and lean as a scarecrow. But her air of hoydenish liveliness only increased as time passed. It seemed to rivet the eye of the most casual observer, he’d noticed. It even made her pretty, or at least enormously pleasing, in certain kinds of light.

  “Papa, might I speak to you a moment?”

  “Fritzchen, it’s half past ten.”

  “I won’t take long. Please?”

  He followed her into the music room, where she faced him soberly and said, “Cousin Paul is going to leave the country, that’s definite?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Everyone’s moving on.” She stood up straight, looking him in the eye. “Papa, you know I’m going to be an actress.”

  “Is that what you wanted? To tell me nothing’s changed?”

  “Yes, Papa, that’s all. I don’t want you to forget.”

  He sighed.

  “I can’t pretend I like this very much, Fritzi. But I suppose I must be resigned. I learned a few lessons while I was gone. I won’t hinder you. I’ll help you financially if you need that. I’ll even—”

  He cleared his throat.

  “—give you my reluctant consent. If it matters.”

  “Oh, Papa, yes, it does! Thank you!” She jumped to his arms. They embraced warmly, then stepped apart.

  “One more question, Papa. Do I have to call you General now?”

  With a teasing smile, he said, “Everyone else does. I’ll think about it, Liebling.” He patted her. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Papa, are you teasing me?”

  “Teasing? Would I do that? Your own father? The general?”

  They looked at each other gravely for a few seconds. Then she saw the truth in his eyes, and burst out with laughter. Father and daughter walked up the long staircase in the dark and silent house, arms around each other’s waist, voices murmuring.

  A half hour later, he lay naked beside Ilsa in the familiar bed. His ardor had taken her by surprise. Now they were resting.

  The room was black, all the windows open. No air stirred; no stars shone. The cieba wood stick was propped against the night table where he could reach it. The house was still, everyone in their beds. Paul had gone back to Shadow’s. He’d stayed at the Crown house only two nights, moving his belongings to the Levee before Joe arrived home from Florida. Until the first showing of his film, Paul thought he should live where he worked. He’d come to supper several times, though. Relations were more or less normal again.

  Around the country, the war was still the topic of the moment. A giddy spirit of victory prevailed. Bunting and flags fluttered on stores and office buildings and front porches. The jingoes in Congress and the editorial rooms of certain Chicago papers were saying America would wrest territory from the hands of the beaten enemy. The conquered island of Porto Rico, perhaps even the Philippines. Schoolchildren were writing essays on “Our New Empire of Democracy” or “America, A New World Power.” What a glorious war it had been, to achieve all that! Or such was the opinion of fat-butted politicians and purblind editorialists who had never dirtied their hands and their trousers and their memories in a war. Joe had served in two. He never wanted to serve in another.

  Because a powerful, youthful, prideful spirit was abroad in the country, Pflaum’s Music Hall was spending a lot of money to promote the premiere of “Conquest of the San Juan Hill.” There was prominent mention of Paul in the newspaper advertisements. Only this morning, Joe had clipped the one from the Tribune.

  EXCLUSIVELY AT PFLAUM’S!

  “CONQUEST OF THE SAN JUAN HILL”

  Personally Photographed by

  AMERICAN NATIONAL LUXOGRAPH’S

  Ace Camera Operator

  PAUL “DUTCH” CROWN

  “He Risked His Life for These

  Thrilling and Authentic Scenes

  of Our Brave Boys in Action!”

  EVERY PATRIOTIC AMERICAN

  MUST SEE THESE PICTURES!

  After the premiere showing, Paul would leave America in a cheap cabin on a steamer bound for Southampton. He had his ticket, already booked with money provided by a friend in London. The same journalist who was luring him to work there. Joe had discussed it with his nephew more than once. Pleaded with him to give Chicago, and his adopted country, a second chance. Paul said no. He was polite but adamant. Joe laid a great part of the blame on himself.

  Needing comfort, he rolled over and kissed the hollow of Ilsa’s neck. Her skin was damp from their lovemaking. He continued to kiss and nuzzle her, then moved his hand down the front of her nightgown. She surprised him by giggling.

  “Joe, I feel foolish. We’re too old.”

  “Never too old to show you care for someone.” She tangled her fingers in his hair and rolled to face him. The warm breath from their mouths mingled. She kissed him and whispered, “No. Never too late for that.”

  A little later, cooling off again, he lay with his arm under his head, staring up into the dark.

  “Ilsa.”

  Drowsily: “Yes?”

  “I would like to make another search for Joe Junior. Hire the detective bureau once again.”

  “I think it’s futile. The silence has lasted too long. Nothing mailed to us in many months.”

  “Still, I would like to do it. And regularly thereafter.” He paused. “That is, if you’ll consent.”

  “I consent. There are far worse ways to spend money. Far worse things to spend it on than hope.”

  “Even if you believe it’s a vain hope?”

  She ran her fingers lightly down his bearded face and once more kissed him, sweetly and tenderly.

  “Yes, my dearest. Even then.”

  115

  Dutch

  SEPTEMBER. TORRENTIAL RAIN FALLING. Gutters overflowing.

  Cabs impossible to find. In spite of it, Pflaum’s Music Hall was sold out for the first showing of “Conquest of the San Juan Hill.” Shadow had badgered and wheedled Iz Pflaum into spending six or seven times his usual modest budget for display advertising. Solely from this advance publicity, the colonel had signed up four new locations in other states. Six more potential exhibitors of Luxograph films had come from out of town to attend the premiere, one all the way from Denver.

  In front of Pflaum’s, with gale force wind blowing sheets of rain past the streetlights, there was a raucous, ill-tempered jam of private carriage drivers and their vehicles, Nicky Speers among them. Each driver strove to outmaneuver the others and release his passengers under the jutting marquee. Rain had already shorted out six of its electric bulbs.

  In the lobby, wearing patent leather shoes, tails, white tie, and a wing collar that was too small, Iz Pflaum greeted newspaper writers and other important people volubly, if fuzzily. Paul had arrived a half hour early, and at that time Shadow told him Pflaum had already consumed half a quart of bourbon. With every other remark or jocularity, Pflaum unconsciously hooked a finger in his collar and jerked. It didn’t help; his face grew steadily redder.

  Shadow himself was suavely elegant in a new amber-colored frock coat, starched shirt with black bandanna, tapered black trousers, black knee boots, and his big white sombrero. He was busy joking and wheedling and making deals with the out-of-towners in the main floor promenade, which had doors to the lobby on the outer side, doors to the auditorium on the inner. Mary was with him. She had squeezed her breasts into her tightest corset, then her most revealing bodice, and she presented this view of rosy flesh constrained and overflowing to each visitor. Mary also helped her man by passing out kisses and sly winks like cigars.

  Iz Pflaum had scheduled the short film after the variety program due to begin at eight o’clock. Paul was extremely nervous. He stood alone, twisting a brand new checked cap bought for the occasion, together with his handsome new plaid suit, with Aunt Ilsa’s attendance, advice, and money. She had overridden all his protests.

  The doo
rs to the lobby kept opening to admit patrons. He saw Nicky Speers with the Crown carriage under the marquee. Uncle Joe jumped out and helped Aunt Ilsa alight. Next came Fritzi and Carl.

  Aunt Ilsa and Fritzi embraced Paul, and Carl shook his hand. Uncle Joe didn’t want to prolong the meeting. “I believe we should find our seats, it’s almost eight.” As he stepped past Paul, he squeezed his arm. “I hope it will be a huge success.”

  Pflaum had put them in the third row on the left aisle, directly behind Shadow and Mary. Paul had the aisle seat, with his aunt to his right, then Uncle Joe, Fritzi, and Carl. At five past eight, as the last stragglers were rushing to their places, the electric chandelier dimmed and there was an eruption of nervous coughing and rustling of specially printed programs. Pflaum’s band leader, Professor Ludwig Teasdale, stepped to the podium in the pit, pivoted flamboyantly—a deliberate play for a hand, which he got—and began the overture.

  No one wanted to see the variety bill. The juggler was hooted so rudely, he missed a step and lost control of the spinning Indian clubs. One fell on his head, the others thumped and rolled all over the stage. From the gallery there were loud requests for the hook.

  The other acts didn’t fare much better. Finally, mercifully, the variety show ended. The lights came up while the screen was rolled into place behind the velvet curtain. The curtain parted again, to vigorous applause.

  Iz Pflaum had programmed twenty minutes of the subjects Paul had photographed in Tampa. Blanket-tossing and cavalry drill. The alligator and the Gatling gun scything down the palm tree. All had been exhibited at the theater soon after Paul sent them from Florida.

  More applause, and the curtains closed once more. A hush fell. The house lights came up, so Professor Teasdale could be seen raising his baton. The orchestra struck up “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” The audience responded with clapping, whistling, stamping.

  At the end of the piece, an arc light threw a hot white circle on the curtain. Into the spotlight lurched Iz Pflaum. He delivered a purple and occasionally garbled introduction of Colonel R. Sidney Shadow III.