Homeland

by John Jakes

  “A mother’s gift to her country’s cause

  Is a story yet untold—

  She had three sons, three only ones,

  Each worth his weight in gold.”

  Paul walked by, whistling the tune softly. He found the glove section and began sorting through bins holding various styles and sizes.

  “She gave them up for the sake of war,

  While her heart was filled with pain.

  As each went away, she was heard to say,

  He will never return again …”

  He found exactly the right pair. Gauntlets of black-dyed leather with warm fleece linings. The salesgirl took his money with unusual friendliness and a glance of invitation. Paul just smiled. She put his money and the sales slip into a metal basket, hooked the basket on an overhead wire, and yanked a bell cord hanging from the ceiling. A pulley system whizzed the basket along the wire to a cashier on the mezzanine. A few moments later the basket came sailing down the wire with change and the bill stamped PAID.

  “Would you like these wrapped, sir?”

  “No thanks, I’ll wear them.”

  She handed them across with a little pout of her well-rouged Cupid’s bow lips.

  Paul headed for the street while the plugger plaintively sang the second verse. The mother who had lost three sons found them waiting for her at the gates of Heaven. In full uniform. The applause for the sentimental song was enthusiastic. While performing it, the pianist had gathered a larger crowd, including a man whose appearance, from the back, plucked some faint chord in Paul’s memory. The man’s brushy black hair stuck out in many directions.

  Paul stepped to one side for a partial view of the man’s profile. The man was young; about his own age. He wore a proper and expensive Prince Albert suit of medium gray and a gray silk cravat, maroon with thin gray diagonal stripes. Over his arm he carried a gray overcoat. Lively eyes, vivid blue, darted over the racks of sheet music. Paul recognized him.

  The plugger again laced his hands together, cracked his knuckles, and shook his fingers in the air while smiling to keep his audience. He hit the keys and swung into another hit of the moment, “Ragtime Rose.” Half a dozen of the racks were filled with copies of the piano piece. The name of the composer, Harry Poland, was printed large in scrolled type.

  The young man with black hair bounced up and down on his toes, accenting the complicated rhythms with little shakes of his head and flicks of his elbows. He was beaming, immersed in the music. Slowly, Paul walked on around the platform. Absolutely no mistake …

  Across the carpeted platform, the young man noticed him. He and Paul were opposite each other. Paul waited, smiling in a tentative way. The young man frowned, obviously turning inward to search his memory.

  His mouth fell open.

  Paul grinned, snatched off his golf cap, and walked swiftly back to the other man.

  “Herschel?”

  “Pauli?”

  “Herschel Wolinski.”

  “It’s I, yes, Herschel, your friend!” His accent was surprisingly light. With a whoop, he tossed his overcoat on the platform and threw his arms around Paul, slapping his back and shouting, “Pauli, Pauli!” Annoyed listeners shushed them. The pianist was the most annoyed. Herschel said to him, “Stop the dirty looks, keep on playing, it’s my music.”

  He leaned back, gripping Paul’s shoulders. “It’s really you?”

  “It is, Pauli, or Paul, whatever you want—I have a lot of names in America. What do I call you? Herschel, or Harry?”

  “Harry. Now and forever.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “It will be four years in March. My mother passed away and my sisters chose to remain behind. I told you I’d make it, didn’t I? I never doubted. I have a new name, as you noticed. It’s very American, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I like it, it’s catchy.” Still amazed, Paul picked up a copy of “Ragtime Rose.” He opened it; gazed at the incomprehensible black notes.

  “You wrote this.”

  “I did. Actually I wrote it some time ago, to be played slowly. That was not—ah—practicable. I chanced to be in a saloon one evening listening to a black entertainer from St. Louis. He played piano pieces in this tricky time. He showed me how. The Negroes call it raggedy time, or sometimes just rag. I threw out the old version of my music and produced this one, in raggedy time.”

  “And it’s a hit, I hear it everywhere.”

  “I must say modestly—that’s so. Sales to date are two hundred thousand and climbing. It’s published, as you see, by Howley, Haviland, the firm in which the great Paul Dresser is a partner. I started there as a song plugger, like that fellow playing, but they soon promoted me to staff composer. I do all right composing marches but I am not good with ballads yet. This piece is my favorite. Mr. Dresser hates it. He regards it as a threat to the sweet style in which he writes. But he recognizes music that will make money. Mr. Dresser likes money.”

  “Herschel, I cannot believe this.”

  “Nor I, really.” He remembered something. Made a pistol of his hand; cocked his thumb. “Bang, bang!”

  Paul laughed, shouted, “Bang, bang,” and fired back. Three spectators moved away. A floorwalker strode toward them. The plugger, no longer the center of interest, hit sour notes to show his pique.

  Herschel didn’t care. He snatched Paul’s hand and waltzed him around as if they were at a ball. Herschel’s head bobbed in perfect three-quarter time.

  The prim floorwalker confronted them. “See here, we can’t allow—”

  But they were already gone, arm in arm, into Sixth Avenue. Herschel had stuck a copy of the song in Paul’s coat pocket, calling over his shoulder, “I’m the composer, I get free copies.”

  They drank beer through the afternoon, adjourned to Charles Rector’s splendid restaurant at dusk, and there dined on venison steaks, with many glasses of red Bordeaux to wash it down. They could hardly stop talking.

  Paul finished his seventh or eighth glass and brushed his fingers over the sheet music on the tablecloth, now stained with wine. “You deserve success. This is a very pretty piece.”

  “Well, maybe not pretty. But catchy. And American, one hundred percent.”

  “You’ve done so well here. It’s wonderful.”

  “You know I was determined to reach America. When I succeeded, I was determined not to fail. New York is so costly, but I’ve been lucky. I have other jobs besides my regular one at the publishing house. I work a lot as a rehearsal pianist for stage shows. When my schedule permits, I am the onstage accompanist for Miss Flavia Farrel.”

  “The Irish Songbird. Surely.”

  Herschel’s cheeks pinked. “Miss Farrel is a demanding woman. But she is a joy to serve. I am slowly learning to do her musical arrangements, and I also provide certain physical comforts which she requires with great regularity. I’m only too happy to oblige. She’s twenty years older than I, but a handsome and generous woman. She has taught me many things.” He blushed. “Please don’t ask me to be more specific.”

  He filled Paul’s glass, then poured the last of the wine for himself. “Of course what I want most is to compose all the time. Not for hire, for myself. I know very little about formal musical theory. I am taking a night course.”

  “Let’s leave,” Paul said suddenly. “I’m thirsty for some good beer.”

  “So am I. Old friend.”

  Their whereabouts soon blurred in Paul’s mind. At one place on the Bowery they exchanged addresses, and Herschel clasped Paul’s hand and promised to visit Chicago, to meet Julie. They were picked up at half past two in the morning, reeling along lower Fifth Avenue in the freezing air, happily intoxicated. They spent the night in a jail cell, singing the melody of “Ragtime Rose” over and over, without words, while the inmates of the other cells cursed and threatened.

  At seven in the morning, his head bursting and his eyeballs on fire, Paul telephoned Ollie at the hotel.

  “Bring money for bail.
I’ll explain everything. Did you hire the launch? Good. Pack the equipment. We’re filming at Ellis Island before noon.”

  Herschel heard none of this. He was still in the cell, curled up in his fine Prince Albert suit, snoring.

  “Everything all right?” Paul said.

  “Set,” Ollie said.

  “Here they come.”

  The Luxograph was set up on the esplanade at the Ellis Island immigrant depot, a much more substantial building than the one Pauli Kroner and old Valter had passed through. The new structure was solid red brick, accented with sand-colored stone. The docking area along the esplanade had become one side of a U-shaped ferry slip; on the other side, west, landfill from the subway excavation had extended the island for a new hospital standing half completed in the chilly sunlight. Paul had had the strangest feeling as they arrived in their launch; he’d never imagined he would see Ellis Island a second time.

  A squat ferry named Weehawken was churning toward the open end of the slip, her decks thronged with newcomers from steerage. Today’s arrivals were off the Karlsruhe of the North German Lloyd line, Bremen. Winter crossings were rough, and Paul understood this had been one of the worst in recent memory. He could imagine the emotions of the immigrants as they faced their ordeal.

  The ferry chugged into the slip and warped toward the esplanade with engines at low speed. Ollie crouched over the camera with his cap reversed. The Luxograph lens pointed at the anxious faces behind the rail.

  “I’m grinding, Dutch.”

  “Get as much as you can, it’s good stuff.”

  The ferry’s port side bumped the esplanade. Crewmen leaped off with mooring lines. In the forefront of the crowd waiting for the gangway to be lowered Paul saw an old gentleman with a fine guardsman’s mustache. All of his possessions were in one large bundle. He looked bewildered; frightened. So did many others.

  When the ferry tied up, the gangway was swung out. An officious crewman lowered the rope and jumped back. The old man threw himself forward with great energy, obviously fearful of being trampled by younger or stronger people behind him. A uniformed official pointed to the main doors of the baggage hall. “That way, hurry it up.”

  Men and women surged off the ferry, pushing, exclaiming, snarling at each other. Someone bumped the old man; he staggered. Paul grabbed his arm to prevent a fall. He pulled the old man out of the crowd, supported him with one hand while he reached down to rescue his bundle.

  The old fellow was trembling; didn’t even notice the camera. “Here, sit down. Catch your breath.” Paul helped the old man sit on his bundle. His old wrinkled cheeks were red from exertion.

  Ollie kept grinding as the immigrants streamed up the walk to the doors. The old man fanned himself with his fisherman’s cap. “Vielen Dank. Es ist so schwer. Die Reise war so lang und stürmisch.” Many thanks. It’s so heavy. The trip was so long and stormy. Paul nodded to show he understood.

  In a few moments, recovering, the old man stood up and shook Paul’s hand. He spoke rapidly, still in German. “What a pleasure to meet you. My first American.”

  “I’m not really—” Something stopped him. In German he said, “Yes, welcome.”

  The old man cast an anxious glance at the doors. The immigrants seemed to be vanishing into a black cave. “I must go in there?”

  “Yes, but you mustn’t be scared of the officials. Some of them get tired and yell a lot. But most of them are decent men.”

  “Your German is excellent. You are a countryman?”

  “Berlin. Some time ago. A long time ago.”

  “I’m Swabian.” Paul had recognized the accent. “A little town I’m sure you never heard of. Schwäbisch-Gmünd.”

  “I know it well. My family’s from Aalen, just up the road.”

  “Imagine that. A neighbor, clear on the other side of the ocean.” The old man glanced at the doors again; all the other arrivals were inside the lower hall, where immigration officers were shouting at them. The ferry was preparing to cast off and back out of the slip. Farther out, a barge waited to come in with another load of people and baggage.

  “I’d better hurry and find my place—”

  “There’s plenty of time. I’ll help you rejoin your group.” Paul took the old man’s paper tag from the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket. “Four-two. Follow me.” Ollie ran out the magazine and was surprised to see his partner moving away with the old man holding fast to his arm, like a child.

  “I didn’t know whether I should attempt the journey. I’m sixty-eight years old. My trade is the loom. Weaving fine fabrics.”

  “You’ll find work, good workers are always wanted. It’s the lazy ones who don’t last long.”

  “That’s a good German attitude. But I don’t mind telling you, I’ve heard awful stories about this island. How they turn back most everyone.”

  “No, no, it isn’t true. If you’re healthy and act confident, there’s no problem. You look fine to me. Is someone meeting you?”

  “My brother Reinhardt.”

  “Good, that makes things easier.”

  The old man gasped when he saw the chaotic hall packed with tired, fretful newcomers. Shafts of winter sunshine splashed the staircase in the center. Strident voices roused memories in Paul. “Manifest two with me. Zwei, hier!” “Keep moving, keep moving.” “Manifest four this way. Step lively!”

  “Manifest four, that’s you. Let the gentleman through, please, he took a bad fall back there.” They fought their way forward to the proper spot. Paul patted the old man’s shoulder. “Stay with your group. Good luck.”

  “Thanks again, so much. I’m sorry I took you for an American.”

  Paul looked at him. There it was at last. The sign.

  “But I am.”

  He waved the old man on.

  Saturday morning was warmer, with low clouds moving across the harbor, blown inland from the Atlantic. Now and then the sun brightened the clouds and flashed on the water. A nice effect for the camera.

  The launch tied up at the pier and they unloaded their gear. The occasional glimmers of sun subtly changed the color of the copper-green robe of Liberty Enlightening the World. On the way inside, Ollie said, “Where are we putting the camera, up on that balcony at the base of the statue?”

  “Higher. We’re going all the way up to the torch. There’s a catwalk, holds fourteen people.”

  Ollie stopped, stricken. “That must be two hundred and fifty feet, Dutch.”

  “Something over three hundred, straight up through her arm.”

  “Are there steps?”

  “I was told there’s an iron ladder, like the ladder for a hayloft.”

  “We can’t carry this heavy camera up a ladder!”

  “Yes we can, the climb is only forty-two feet. You’ll go first, and pull, I’ll hold on below. That way, if there’s a slip, you can still hang on.”

  “While you try to catch the camera?” Ollie looked green.

  “Come on, it won’t happen, this is a lark. You’ll remember it always.”

  “Sure, if I live through it.”

  Paul showed his letter of authorization to one of the guards at the entrance. The guard gave them a choice of an iron stair winding upward, or a cable-driven elevator. They didn’t take long to decide.

  As the cage rose slowly toward a stair landing, Ollie was bug-eyed at the superstructure dropping past them. Paul tried to appear blasé but he found the interior of the statue equally awe-inspiring, and not a little eerie. There was a whole webwork of pig-iron braces, the armature, supporting the skin of the statue. Each brace was specially curved for its particular place, its particular task.

  It was cool in the elevator, but Ollie was sweating. In hopes that he’d relax, Paul pointed out the sway bars Alexandre Gustave Eiffel had designed into all four corners of the statue, to allow it to move a few inches in any direction in a high wind. Ollie didn’t listen. Paul remarked on the thin, armadillo-like copper plates forming the skin, each mounted so that i
ts top would tilt in slightly when the wind blew. “What they say is, the statue moves and breathes. Otherwise it couldn’t withstand a gale.”

  Ollie still wasn’t listening, he was muttering to himself. Praying? Paul wondered.

  The cage stopped at a second landing, where another guard inspected their papers, then stepped back to show the narrow iron ladder on the other side of a curved brace.

  “All yours, boys. Door up above is small, you’ll have to stoop some. It’s windy up there, so don’t get careless.”

  “Oh God,” Ollie said. He looked at the guard, looked at Paul, tipped his head back and looked up the ladder, which seemed to grow smaller, more insubstantial, the higher it went in the statue’s arm.

  Ollie crawled under the brace. Paul lifted the camera over it, then crawled under himself. Ollie wiped his hands on his pants, took a breath, held it, and stepped up on the first rung. From the second rung, he reached down to take the camera with his left hand while Paul supported the tripod.

  Up they went, a perilous step at a time. Paul leaned the camera against the ladder, gripping it with one hand, holding a rung with the other, while Ollie used two hands to move up, then pulled the camera after him. Soon Paul was sweating as hard as his partner. He looked down and wished he hadn’t. The guard on the second landing was already small as a doll. He heard the wind moaning around the outside of the arm.

  “You all right?” Paul said when they were three quarters of the way up. Ollie was hauling the camera to the next rung. Suddenly Paul felt the weight shift; Ollie had let the camera slip.

  Paul teetered for a moment, the rung cutting into his left palm, the tripod braced against his chest as the camera threatened to tilt back over his head; fall … All over, he thought.

  With a lunge, and a curse, Ollie snagged the camera with one hand, leaning outward from the ladder at an angle of almost forty-five degrees.