Volk

by Piers Anthony

  F. Lane hadn’t figured out how the F was pronounced. Quality was stricken. “Oh, I’m doing it! I’m making foolish assumptions, letting my temper run away with me, and using pejorative language.” She inhaled deeply, exhaled, then turned to face the German. “Ernst, I apologize—”

  “Accepted,” Ernst said immediately. “We have mutually exclusive views, but there need be no rancor.”

  “Yes,” she agreed faintly.

  “But I believe I do understand. The mention of the war in Spain reminded me. One of my companions in the Hitler Youth, which is an organization that parallels your Boy Scouts but is more thorough, was older than I and went on to become a flyer like Lane. He was not listed as such, for political reasons, but he served in the Kondor Legion—you might spell it with a C—in Spain last year. He flew an experimental aircraft called a dive-bomber, and it crashed. When I learned of his death, I cursed the futility of war.”

  “Spain...” she echoed.

  “I lived in Spain, in my youth; my father was stationed there for a time. I learned to speak the language there. It is a nice country, almost as pretty as Germany. Now that memory of Iberia is spoiled, for the blood of my friend seeped into that soil. Yet all would have been well, but for the idiocy of war.”

  “Another pacifist!” Lane said in mock wonder. But he found himself touched. He had not known about Ernst’s loss of a flying friend. Ernst had always refused to be taken for a ride in a small plane, and now the reason was coming clear.

  “I, too, lost a friend in Spain,” Quality whispered. “I never met her, but I knew her well. A woman who lived in a Basque village.”

  “Ah, the territory of the Basques!” Ernst said. “That was the Republican stronghold where—”

  “I know that was where!” she cried, her voice shrill again. “That awful Condor Legion bombed her town!”

  “Ah, no! You do not suppose—?”

  “They could have met?” she said acidly. “You think he said ‘Here, my dear Spanish lady, is ein gift from der Führer,’ as he dropped his bomb on her head?”

  “Gift in German means poison,” Ernst said. “But I take your meaning. Yet if he crashed, he might not have bombed anyone. He had no animosity to others; he did not mean to hurt. He merely liked to fly, and the experience of diving out of the sky in seeming suicide, to pull out only a few feet from the ground—”

  “That I can understand,” Lane murmured. “The exhilaration of falling through space, like parachuting—”

  “It is not for me,” Ernst said somewhat abruptly. “His name was—”

  “No! No names!” Quality cried. “How terrible, if—”

  “Yes, it is terrible,” Ernst agreed soberly. “If I could wave a magic wand and abolish the Spanish war, then and now—for the slaughter continues there to this day—and save the lives of your friend and mine, I would certainly do so.”

  “The war continues.” Now Quality faced straight forward, her face set. “No wish of yours or mine can change it. But I confess you have some basis to understand my feeling.”

  “I’m glad that’s settled,” Lane said. He was driving more slowly now, for the rain had continued to intensify, and the edge of the road was getting flooded. “I thought for a moment we were going to re-enact the war here in this car. Let’s let the sword be a plowshare, and a gift not be poison. I want you two to get along.”

  “Why?” Ernst inquired after a pause. “The lady has reason to avoid me, and this I understand. Had her friend been a pilot bombing my friend’s town, I would feel the same.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Quality said. “We are not our brothers’ keepers in quite that sense. But as long as you support the brutal Nazi regime—”

  “The American regime is far from gentle,” Ernst said. “One has but to look at history, at the way your country caused Panama to revolt from Colombia, and sent her gunship to balk the Colombian troops, so that a separate deal could be made on the Canal Zone America wanted—”

  “Touché!” Lane exclaimed.

  “And my country’s dealings with Mexico, no more savory,” Quality said. “I support none of this. Yet—”

  “There is evil enough to go around,” Lane cut in, surprised at both Ernst’s and Quality’s conversance with the skeletons in America’s closet. No gunship had appeared in his own history text. “We know that. And each person must support his country, his system, even if it isn’t perfect. No one respects a traitor. You two should be able to tolerate each other’s governments for a day.”

  Now it was Quality who asked “Why?”

  “Because I want Ernst to be the Best Man when you and I get married.”

  Quality gasped. Ernst made a guttural snort of derision.

  “No, I’m serious,” Lane insisted. “You’re the best man I know, Ernst.”

  After a moment the German recovered enough to protest. “Nevertheless, in the circumstances—”

  The car jerked and slowed. The left front wheel had hit a pothole concealed by filling water. For a moment the vehicle veered toward the opposing traffic.

  Quality made a little shriek. Ernst grunted and jumped forward. Then Lane wrestled the wheels back to the right. The scare was over.

  “What?” Quality asked, startled. For Ernst’s muscular left forearm was across her front, pressing her back into the seat.

  “Apology,” the German muttered, drawing quickly away.

  “That proves it,” Lane said, pulling the car into a lighted roadside area. “You want to know what he was doing, Quality? I’ll tell you what he was doing. He was throwing his arm around you to prevent you going head-first through the windshield if I cracked us up. Because he has the mass and muscle and reaction-speed you don’t, and he knows how to hang on during a fall. He couldn’t help me, because I was driving, and anyway I’m pretty tough myself. But you’re something else.”

  Quality considered. “I fear I misjudged thee, Ernst,” she said faintly.

  “Because politics don’t matter in the crunch,” Lane continued. “There was no time for thought, only reaction. As in wrestling or self defense. Ernst did what was needed to be done, instantly, without even thinking. He could have saved your life, Quality, if I had messed up.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I apologize to thee again, Ernst.”

  “A natural misunderstanding—” the German demurred, embarrassed.

  “So as I said: Ernst is the best man I know,” Lane said. “All the rest is dross.” He turned to his friend. “When she says `thee’ she really means it. It’s called the plain talk; she uses it at home.” He turned back to Quality. “About his being—”

  “I withdraw my objection,” she said contritely. “Thee knows best. He shall be Best Man when we wed.”

  “Now let’s go find something to eat,” Lane said briskly. He did not try to kiss her, though he wanted to, because Quality did not do such things in public.

  But the rain was still coming down. They waited in silence a few more minutes for it to diminish. Lane glanced at his face in the rear-view mirror; there was just light enough, here, because of the neon illumination of signs. He fished out his comb to straighten his tousled hair and restore the natural curl. He was what he called a bleach-blond, like Ernst: his hair was brown, quite dark when wet, but dryness and the sun made it shades lighter. On those occasions in the past when he had worn it longer, the ends turned quite fair. His mother always thought of him as blond; he had at one time taken that as evidence that she was color-blind. Now he knew better; she merely remembered him as a tow-head baby.

  He leaned forward to peer at his left cheek. The scars hardly showed, but he remained conscious of them. Others had assured him that he was handsome, and that the scars might be regarded as a beauty mark. Certainly Quality wasn’t bothered; she judged by other things than appearance. But he would be happier with clear skin. Maybe surgery, some day, though the notion of going under the knife did not appeal.

  “If thee is quite through—” Quality said, nudgin
g him gently. She teased him sometimes about his vanity. She never seemed to touch up her own face, yet she always looked prim. Perhaps it came with inner goodness.

  The rain had finally eased. They got out of the car, emerging into a drizzle becoming too fine to heed; only the irregular puddles impeded progress. They walked toward a garishly illuminated establishment a block distant.

  “That will not do,” Quality said as they drew close enough to make out the neon lettering.

  “Oh—beer, ale” Lane said. “You don’t drink.” He said that for Ernst’s benefit. Germany was famous for beer, and Lane did not want there to seem to be any obscure affront.

  “Sensible people do not,” Ernst said tactfully. “Perhaps there is a more suitable place beyond.”

  They resumed walking. At that point the door to the bar burst open and four men staggered out in an ambiance of alcohol. The first almost collided with Quality. “Look at that!” he exclaimed, his beer-breath surrounding her.

  Quality averted her gaze, and Lane took her by the elbow and guided her around the stranger. At this moment she reminded him of a Christian Temperance lady, and it bothered him to have her sensitivities bruised by these oafs.

  “Hey!” the man cried, lurching about, reaching for Quality. The reek of his breath intensified. But Ernst’s forearm intercepted him.

  “Please let us pass in peace,” Ernst said, gently setting the man back.

  But the drunkard swung his fist instead. Ernst blocked the blow and shoved the man back again, so that he collided with his fellows. “Please let us pass,” he repeated without emphasis.

  The man should have taken warning, because Ernst’s physical competence was readily apparent. But he had the belligerence of befuddlement. “What are you, a Communist?” he demanded.

  “I am a Nazi.” Ernst turned stiffly to follow Lane and Quality. If there was one thing a Nazi hated, it was Communism, Lane knew. Ernst hardly showed it, but he had been deeply insulted.

  “A Nazi!” Now all four men were pressing forward aggressively, discovering the opportunity to convert their drunken ire into patriotism. It was all right to beat up a Nazi.

  “That wasn’t diplomatic, friend,” Lane said, turning quickly around.

  “No fighting!” Quality protested. But it was too late. The four drunks were wading in.

  “Stand clear, girl,” Lane said. “This is a job for us warmongers.” She skipped back hastily.

  Lane and Ernst made contact with the first two men almost simultaneously. Suddenly the two drunks were hoisted in the air, whirled about, and half-shoved, half-hurled into the remaining two. All four collapsed in a heap.

  “Compliments of the two leading members of the collegiate wrestling team,” Lane said, dusting himself off and clapping his friend on the shoulder. It was hard to conceal his satisfaction, but Quality’s stern gaze assisted him.

  The fight was gone from the drunks. Lane and Ernst turned around again and rejoined Quality.

  “That would not have been a fair match even had they not been intoxicated,” she reproved them. But her sympathy for brawling drunks was quite limited, and she knew the four men had not been hurt. It occurred to Lane that even a pacifist like her could appreciate certain advantages in associating with nonpacifists like him. What would she have done if she had encountered the drunks alone? But he knew the answer: she would never have gone near a bar alone.

  They found a suitable place to eat. They relaxed and became college students again. They were all the same age and had many common enthusiasms, and the summer was just beginning.

  By the time they returned to the car, the drunks were gone. The rain had dwindled to nothing, leaving a rather pretty nocturnal clarity.

  Lane’s thoughts drifted from the tedious drive. That scar on his face, glimpsed in the mirror—that had a history that returned at odd moments, especially when he was depressed or tired. He was tired now. The night road reminded him of the streets of his home region, not so very far from here. His father was a mason and a Mason—in the employment and social senses—in the Troy/Albany section of New York State. Mr. Dowling had been there most of his life and was well established. Lane had been granted material comforts from infancy, never going hungry or poorly clothed, always having the best of education and entertainment. Odd how far that missed the truth of his upbringing.

  He glanced at his companions, as if fearful that his thoughts were being overheard. Both were nodding. Quality had let her head fall back against the cushion, so that her smooth neck was exposed; it was not an ideal pose, but she remained pretty, her delicately rounded chin projecting, her petite bosom heaving gently. Ernst, in back, had slumped against the window, one arm elevated to cushion his head; his neck too was exposed, showing the muscles and cords. He had a wrestlers neck, of course; he could not be choked by any ordinary person, because his neck was too strong. He was the very best companion to have, when encountering pugnacious drunks—and excellent also in intellectual conversation. The German believed in the so-called Aryan ideal, the perfect white Christian—though at times Lane doubted whether it was even Christianity the Nazis ultimately sought—physically and mentally pure by their definitions. Ernst was that ideal, as smart and strong and handsome as a man could be without being obvious.

  Ernst and Quality: two unique people, his closest associates. It had been Lane’s minor grief that they did not get along with each other, since each was so important to him. Yet he was well able to understand their fundamental separation. A Nazi and a pacifist? There was no way such people could enjoy each other’s company! They did have certain areas of common ground, in that each could speak Spanish, but they never spoke it to each other. Ernst was the son of a minor or middling embassy official—the kind who did all the work and never got the credit—who had been assigned in Madrid for two or three years, so of course Ernst had picked it up. Since Ernst never let a talent go once he had it, he surely spoke Spanish fluently now. Quality had started Spanish as an elective course in high-school and continued it in college. She had taken French too, with what fluency Lane didn’t know because he spoke no language other than English. He was good at airplanes, not tongues. But probably she was good at both French and Spanish, because she had a natural aptitude for that sort of thing. Perhaps it derived from her empathy with people; she could communicate with anyone, one way or another.

  Lane pictured himself in a small airplane, with Quality beside him, passenger rather than co-pilot. They were flying high up above the clouds, and she was thrilled. She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

  Someone spoke in Spanish. Lane could not understand the words, but he recognized the general nature of the language. It was Ernst, in a seat behind. Quality answered in the same language.

  “Hey, speak English!” Lane protested.

  But they ignored him, and continued their dialogue, to his annoyance. What were they saying, that was so important, that had to be hidden from him?

  Well, he would show them! He swerved the plane to the left—

  A horn blared, startling him. Lane blinked; headlights were flashing in his rearview mirror, alternately blinding him and leaving his vision darkened. Quality was stifling a scream. What was happening? Was the driver behind him crazy?

  He pulled to the right, slowing, to let the impatient one by. “I’d like to ram you, you idiot!” he muttered.

  “Peace, friend,” Ernst said. “We were sleeping. He gave us warning.”

  “You were sleeping,” Lane retorted. “I was driving.” But as he spoke, he realized that he had had to pull too far to the right. His left wheel had been across the center line. He had in fact been dreaming, and his swerve to the left could have wrecked them.

  “Cancel that. I was drifting off.” His anger was shading into retroactive consternation; this was dangerous.

  “Perhaps we should stop and rest,” Quality said. Her voice was strained. “Thee is naturally tired.”

  “Can’t,” Lane replied. “We have to get Ernst to
New York immediately.”

  “We do not know that it is an emergency,” Ernst protested. “Only that my father is concerned.”

  “If he’s like you, his concern is anyone else’s emergency,” Lane said.

  Ernst did not demur. “Yet it is not wise to drive tired. Perhaps I should after all—”

  “No, I’m okay.” Indeed, he was now absolutely awake. He was aware that he seemed unreasonable, and probably was unreasonable, but he could not help himself; to turn over the wheel now would be a sign of weakness. Of course if Quality were to make an issue, he would have to back down. But she could not drive herself; her conservative Quaker family had not yet seen the need for her to indulge in such activity. Maybe they thought that might have made her too independent. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Certainly.” Ernst nevertheless looked alert. It was evident that he intended to see that there was no more nodding while driving.

  Quality cast about for a positive solution. “We were wrong to leave it all to Lane. We must maintain a dialogue.”

  “I do not seek to impose my words on you,” Ernst said.

  She turned her head to face back toward him. “I have made my peace with thee, as well as I am able. It is not thy fault that I abhor elements of thy situation. I do not seek to be uncivil.”

  “Nor I. But on what subjects may we maintain an dialogue that is neither dull nor objectionable?”

  “Play the game of Truth,” Lane said, chuckling. “We take turns asking each other questions, and the answers must be absolutely truthful, or there is a penalty.”

  “I always speak the truth,” Quality said. “Those of my faith do not practice a double standard.”

  She meant that literally, Lane knew. Strict Quakers refused even to take an oath, because that implied that they might be untruthful at other times. So they did not swear, they affirmed. They did not swear in the colloquial sense, either, as Quality had already reminded him on this trip. There, again, was the essence of her appeal for him: her honor, her sheer consistency in life. She had been so aptly named that it was a marvel; she was quality.