Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  Friends were beginning to invite Charles to “quiet little dinners.” But Charles invariably refused. The friends understood; it was very hard on Charles, who had been so fond of Wilhelm. Charles used the long evenings for reading. He read everything he could, long past his bedtime. It’s useless, he would think. But he continued to read. Once he thought: I’m helpless, alone, but what if ten million men like myself, all over the world, had applied themselves as I’ve been doing these last months, and what if we’d all come upon some of the truths simultaneously? Couldn’t we have accomplished something, against the murderers?

  But America wasn’t of age, Charles would think. No one questioned why great mills were suddenly teeming. It was just the depression passing. No newspaper man reported the enormous cargo ships in the Atlantic harbors, being loaded with so many sinister things. No one observed or commented upon the new tone in the newspapers about England. There were “hands across the sea” now, even in those papers which invariably had written fiery editorials against England on the Fourth of July. Charles began to hate the newspapers, which filled five pages with enthusiastic news about sports, three of local “society” news, ten of national news, and only a column or two, occasionally, about foreign news.

  But a year ago I didn’t read, either, thought Charles. All this was going on a year ago, and I knew nothing. It was to be seen, and I sat here every day at my desk and planned how to outwit my brothers and went home to read the sports news, yawn, and go to bed. Everything has changed for me, since the day the colonel came to my office.

  Sometimes he found it hard to work, in his despair. Mr. Parker had to remind him of appointments he had written down, himself, on the big calendar on his desk. He was never conscious of the passing of time. He had not noticed the change in the seasons. Spring had gone; Summer had come. He only knew that Jimmy was at home and that he, himself, did not wear an overcoat any longer. The sun had gone off somewhere, for him, and he never saw it.

  He often went to see Phyllis, who was inconsolable until he came. He would just sit and let her cry, and after a while he would talk of Wilhelm and they would, quite often, recall some humorous occasion, and they would laugh together and talk as if Wilhelm were there and listening, and laughing with them. Charles sometimes had the oddest impression that he was, and he knew that Phyllis felt this, too. On other occasions, however, he found friends with Phyllis, and he was annoyed. No one could comfort Phyllis but himself. I must show my annoyance to them, he would think when he was at home, and that’s too bad. Only this could explain why some of the friends were pointedly cool or mysterious with him, or overly friendly as if to hide uneasiness, or why they would often leave quite soon after his arrival.

  He was not resentful of Mrs. Holt, but she had a way of being quiet with him, when he allowed himself to be driven home in her car on the occasions when he had walked up to Wilhelm’s house. He had the impression that she wanted to speak to him, and then when he’d turn to her expectantly she would suddenly become quite red and begin to talk rapidly of some inconsequential thing. Once or twice, in his presence, she had argued heatedly with Phyllis that Phyllis ought to go away for a nice long rest. It was obvious that Phyllis needed “a rest,” but Charles could not understand Mrs. Holt’s insistence. Charles had not known how much Mrs. Holt had liked Phyllis, and he was grateful. He had also pleaded with Phyllis to go away for a while. But Phyllis would not go. She said that when she was at home she felt that Wilhelm was with her. Mrs. Holt called this morbid. “I’ll even go with you, Phyllis,” she said, once. But Phyllis would not go.

  Mr. Parker came into the office and looked reproachfully at Charles. Charles was now used to that look. “What’ve I forgot this time, Parker?” he asked resignedly. Mr. Parker pointed to the calendar. June 27th. Under the large letters was a scribble in Charles’ own handwriting. “Prepare few words opening Park tomorrow.”

  “How do you know I haven’t already prepared them?” demanded Charles.

  “Because, whenever you say a few words, or prepare to say them, you show them to me days beforehand, sometimes, Mr. Wittmann, for any suggestions.”

  Charles sighed. “Write out something for me, Parker. Something very short. And appropriate. After all, under the circumstances, no one will expect me to give a long speech.”

  “The Mayor and other city officials, and a number of clergymen, are to be present, sir, and they’ll expect more than a word or two. It’s a big occasion; there’ll be the firemen’s band, too.”

  “It’ll be at seven o’clock in the evening, and everyone will be tired. Just a few words, Parker. Not more than two hundred, at the most. And I’ll read them.”

  Mr. Parker was disapproving, if sympathetic. Thousands of people were to be at the opening of the Wittmann Civic Park, and there Mr. Wittmann sat, pale and strained, and with no particular display of interest. Of course, Mr. Wittmann was thinking of his dead brother, Mr. Wilhelm, who would not be present. However, one had certain duties to perform. Mr. Parker nodded, and walked out with quiet stateliness.

  There were rapid footsteps outside Charles’ door. He winced. Friederich came in, with his look of concentrated excitement. He had been wearing this look for a considerable time, and though Charles found it far more preferable than the old expression of fanaticism and sullenness and suspicion, it was somewhat wearing to him. He loved his shops, and had been giving all his life to them for many years, but sometimes he found it hard to be tolerant and understanding when Friederich acted, as he always did, as if the shops were something new, exhilarating, just revealed, and altogether fascinating. And Friederich’s own, personal discovery.

  Friederich flung himself into a chair and began to talk. Charles was very tired. It was a hot day. Those sleeping powders old Metzger had given him gave him hardly more than four hours’ sleep a night. His eyes, fixed politely on Friederich, began to glaze with weariness. He watched Friederich’s mouth move, but it was like being deaf.

  “You are not listening, Karl!” exclaimed Friederich.

  “I was. I am,” said Charles. “But it’s hot. It’s June 27th,” he added, with heavy wonder.

  “Yes! You were listening, then. What are you going to say, Karl?”

  Charles, after a moment’s bafflement, understood. “Frankly, I haven’t decided. What do you think?”

  Friederich was immediately gratified, and Charles was touched. Friederich leaned back in his chair, though he eyed Charles reproachfully. “Karl! Such an important occasion. Thousands—”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Charles, irritably. “Firemen’s band, Mayor, city officials, et cetera. But—”

  Friederich stared at him. “I know. You still think of Wilhelm, all the time.” His small brown eyes glinted with jealousy. He had been deeply, and astonishingly, affected by Wilhelm’s death, and shocked. It was only later that Charles understood that Friederich had resented his affection for Wilhelm, and had resented it all his life. When Charles understood this he had been moved and he could still be moved. He said: “I always think of Wilhelm, Fred. And you think of him, too. How could we help it?”

  Friederich was mollified. “True, true,” he muttered. He paused, and brooded for a few moments. “I never understood Wilhelm, Karl. I confess I was perhaps unjust to him at times, and thought him precious.”

  “He was,” said Charles, smiling. “I even think he thought that of himself, too, occasionally. I don’t think he considered himself very important.”

  “He never did anything important,” said Friederich, nodding. Charles was about to say, with some irascibility, that that wasn’t what he meant at all, but decided that it was too hot for subtleties. “The shops,” Friederich went on. “Wilhelm was never interested in the shops, as we always were.”

  Charles’ eyebrows began to rise, but he stopped them. Friederich was deadly serious.

  Charles had not told Friederich of that last talk with Wilhelm, nor of Jochen’s plot against the shops and his brothers. He did not trust Friederich
’s instability. Friederich rarely spoke to Jochen, and then only with a patronage which Charles contentedly knew infuriated the other man. If Friederich knew of the plot he would lash out at Jochen, and there would be an upheaval too strenuous to be borne as yet.

  “But surely you have in mind something to say, Karl,” Friederich said.

  “Not much.” Charles considered his brother. “Well, have you any suggestions? For instance, what would you say?”

  Friederich sat upright, all excitement. “I would be dignified. After all, it is an occasion.” He spoke, as usual, in German, with rounded periods. “It is a magnificent occasion. The Wittmann Civic Park. The city is honored, the family is honored. This is a park for the refreshment and the comfort of the people. It is given from the heart of the Wittmanns. It is open to the children, the work-stained, the weary, the mothers of families, the humble man who can bask in the shade of the trees, and walk along the cool paths—”

  “You say it,” interrupted Charles, suddenly.

  Friederich gaped.

  “Wonderful!” said Charles. “You say it, Fred. But not in German, of course.”

  Friederich colored brightly. “Impossible!” he cried. However, he was already glowing.

  “Come, now. I’ve heard you’re a magnificent speaker, Fred. Move mountains. That’s what George Hadden told me.”

  Friederich colored even more brightly.

  “And Miss Helen is going to be there. You know how she admires you.”

  Friederich coughed a little. “But you are the president of the company,” he murmured.

  “But I’m not a speaker. Never was. I’d bungle it. As you said, it’s an important occasion. It should be dignified, and in keeping. It’s yours, Fred.”

  Friederich now trusted Charles so completely that he at once believed that it was he, himself, who was responsible for the Park. Charles had said it; it must be so. He cried: “If you insist, then I must not refuse!”

  Charles said, cautiously, as Friederich jumped to his feet: “Suppose, then, that you make a few notes, and show them to me, after lunch, and if I have any suggestions I’ll be glad to help you.”

  “I’ll write them out at once. It will take me but an hour,” said Friederich, and ran out of the office.

  Charles lifted his telephone towards him and called George Hadden. George said: “Now, that’s strange. I was just going to call you, Charlie, and ask you to have lunch with Oliver Prescott and me. Will you?”

  Charles was about to refuse; it was very hard for him to talk to anyone these days. But George Hadden continued: “Charlie, it’s important. Oliver and I have decided to talk to you.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t sound so alarmed.” George laughed, but Charles detected a worried intonation in his laughter. “I don’t suppose it’s too important. I think, though, that it’s time you heard something. Will you come?”

  “Yes.” Charles paused. Then he said: “George, how are things between Fred and your sister? Of course, he may not occupy—any place—in her mind.”

  “Oh, he does,” said George, cheerfully. “Of course, Helen’s a very strait-laced young lady. But I think if he ‘spoke’ to her in about a couple of months he might be very happy at her answer. And our parents admire him as much as Helen does. They think he has a splendid mind, and is completely without guile, and very plain.”

  “I’m beginning to think that of him, too,” said Charles, with a smile.

  “Helen will make a good Quaker out of him, one of these days, Charlie.”

  “That,” said Charles, “would be worth waiting to see.”

  “Perhaps you won’t have too long to wait. He’s gone to the Meeting House with Helen half a dozen times, lately.”

  Charles shook his head incredulously; Friederich among the Quakers! Charles found himself smiling again. A pretty, nice and sedate young woman, with big blue eyes and a calm smile, had been able to accomplish for Friederich what no combination of brothers had been able to do, no reason, no appeals to logic, no argument.

  Mr. Parker came in, still stately, and announced that Tom Murphy was waiting to speak to Mr. Wittmann. Tom entered, pulling off his cap, and Charles motioned him to a seat.

  “Well, Tom?” Charles asked.

  “You don’t have to worry about the older fellows, Mr. Wittmann,” replied Tom. “It’s the young ones, just out of apprenticeship, or the ones on the way. They make me sick, but the Connington is offering them bigger wages, a third more than—we—can afford to pay. Expert tool-makers are hard to come by in this country, sir, as you know.”

  “And?” prodded Charles.

  Tom’s face hardened. “I guess we’ll just have to make up our minds to losing some of ’em, sir. And after all you’ve done for ’em, too! The young fellows, as well as the older ones, with sick pay, and insurance, and better wages than anyone else. You’d think the bastards would be grateful!”

  “I never heard that gratitude was a common human virtue,” Charles said. “And I don’t expect it, just for doing what I could do. So, we’ll lose some of the men we’ve trained. Well.”

  “We’ll just have to train new men as fast as we can, and that ain’t fast, sir. It’s a long, hard training, and a man’s got to be bright first of all. That’s even harder. And then we’ll go on losing them to that damned Connington. You know what they’re doing now? The Connington is encouraging their machine-tool makers to form a union! Not a company union. That’s funny, coming from the Connington.”

  Charles tapped a pencil against his teeth. “Then our men will just have to join that union. No more company union.”

  “But we wouldn’t be able to pay what the union would ask.”

  Charles leaned back in his chair. “Not for too long. No. But the Connington won’t pay sick benefits, or insurance, either. If they did, all the hundreds of other workers in their mill would demand it, too. They couldn’t just extend those benefits to the machine-tool makers. Discriminatory. There’d be strikes, and the Connington can’t afford strikes, just now. A waiting game, Tom.”

  Tom nodded, but dubiously. Then he stared directly at Charles. “You know something, Mr. Wittmann? I think the Connington’s out to smash you.”

  He expected Charles to express disbelief, but Charles only said: “Of course. I’ve known that for a long time.”

  Tom stood up. “I’ve been working, Mr. Wittmann. I’ve been talking to the men. I’m doing what I can.”

  When Tom had gone, Charles glanced at his watch. He had an hour before going to the old Imperial Hotel for lunch with George Hadden and Oliver Prescott. There were some papers he had to sign for Phyllis. Wilhelm had made him his executor. Beyond even his gratitude that Wilhelm had trusted him so, was Charles’ enormous relief. He now had sufficient power, given to him in Wilhelm’s will, and with Friederich, to do what he must eventually do to Jochen. He hoped that the occasion would never come, but something warned him that it would.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  The old Imperial Hotel had once been the meeting place of politicians, Senators, bankers, doctors, business men, and others of importance in Andersburg. For decades, they had met here for luncheon and for dinner, to discuss business, plot strategy, and to eat heavily and leisurely. But now their sons preferred the “new” Penn-Andersburg Hotel, which had been built in 1908, and which was completely electrified. However, Charles liked the old Imperial, with its incandescent gas-chandeliers, its crimson carpeting, its red velvet draperies over thick, mended lace, and its ponderous air. He liked the dining-room, the mahogany walls, great arched windows, and faint smell of dust and rich German cooking.

  The hotel dining-room was very hot, with the yellow June sunlight beating through the curtains which shrouded the windows. He saw that the long wide room was only partially filled, and then he saw Oliver and George rising in a distant corner and waving to him. He went to them, and on the way he looked around him to see if there was anyone here whom he knew. Then he saw old Mr. Heinz, president of the
Andersburg City Bank, eating quietly, and alone. Mr. Heinz had known Emil Wittmann well, and had been superintendent of the Sunday school which the Wittmann boys had attended. Charles had not seen him for many weeks; he suddenly remembered that when he had last seen the old gentleman it had been at Wilhelm’s funeral.

  Charles hesitated. Mr. Heinz was a prosy and precise old bore, even if he was a very shrewd banker. Charles did not bank with him, but they had always been friends. He stopped, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Heinz.”

  The old man turned his big bald head on his short thick neck and looked at Charles. He had the face of a sea lion, with an enormous and drooping gray mustache. The light was none too brilliant in the room, for all the sun at the windows, but Mr. Heinz was noted for his sharp eyesight, even without the rimless spectacles perched on his nose. It was very strange, then, that he did not appear to recognize Charles, that nothing at all moved on his face. He just sat there and looked at Charles impassively, as at a vague and irrelevant intruder, a passing waiter, perhaps. Then he returned to his food and went on eating.

  Charles was taken aback. He had halted about six feet from Mr. Heinz; it was impossible that the old gentleman had not recognized him. Then he shrugged and went on. Oliver and George were still standing, and waiting for him. He shook hands with them. Then, as they sat down, he said: “I’m glad I don’t bank with old Heinz. It’s time they retired him. I’ve known him all my life, and he used to visit my parents very often. Yet, I spoke to him just now and he didn’t know me from a waiter.”

  He expected the two young men to laugh. They did, but not before Charles saw them exchange a serious glance. Then, while he watched them, slightly frowning, they began to talk rapidly, or, at least, Oliver did.

  “I’ve just been showing George a pamphlet I received in the mail this morning,” he said. “Have you gotten one, too? George says he did.”

  It was a finely bound pamphlet; in fact, it was almost a book. Its cover was of crinkled parchment, stamped with gold letters. The paper was thick and shining, the printing excellent. It was entitled: “The Modern Defender of the Faith.” Above this golden title was a group of three flags flowing together, the American Stars and Stripes in the center, to the right of it the German emblem, and to the left, the British Union Jack. The flags were embossed, and so beautifully colored that they appeared painted in enamel.