Evening of the Good Samaritan (27 page)

And Jonathan mused on the bitter irony of its truth outside historical context: there was no doubt in his mind that International Communism was now less a Marxist movement than an arm of Soviet foreign policy. The strongest dialectic enemy of Fascism had become its practical abettor. No one here was likely to acknowledge Hitler’s progress an outgrowth of the struggle between capital and labor, or to attribute his appeasement to the fearful horror the British and French upper classes had of joining with the Soviet in any cause, including Hitler’s containment. There were eulogists here for Mussolini, men who could say of Hitler: “If I were in his shoes …” There were, of course, admirers of Churchill, albeit his friendship with Roosevelt was hard for them to stomach. But not a man except himself, not his friend Mueller, a violent anti-Nazi, not his onetime worshiper, Sylvia Fields; no one except himself would realistically credit Stalin with being a practical politician. Sylvia, whom he suspected of once having belonged to the Party, he assumed had left it following the Hitler-Stalin pact, and was these days utterly out of patience with him who had never been in the Party. “Love looks not with the eyes but with mind,” Shakespeare said. Then, said Jonathan, hate looks not with the mind but with the eyes.

“Then it is your opinion, Doctor Reiss,” a woman said, her words affectedly precise, “that the
real
enemy is Russia?” Americans, particularly Midwesterners, have a passion for precision. The word “real” is the most frequent adjective—or adverb—in their speech.

“But of course!” Reiss cried with superb éclat.

“I’m very glad to hear you say it,” the woman remarked and, turning to the man at her side, she added, but loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I must say I felt much better about it all, having Hitler and them on the same side.”

Much as Martha admired Jonathan, she could not but admit that deeply within herself she felt the same way about it. Fascists were more explicitly detestable in alliance with the Russians. One needed no longer give them credit for having done some good things—as for example, Mussolini’s signing of the Lateran Treaty with the Vatican. One could now clearly understand that his motives were in no way religious.

The moment Martha’s and Nathan Reiss’ eyes met, his smile was as quick as her own. She felt the color rise in her cheeks. He excused himself to those nearest him and made his way to her.

“There were times I did not think this moment would ever come,” he said, and pressing her hand, lifted it to his lips.

“You already seem at home, Nathan. But I bid you welcome anyway.”

“I have had your little book to guide me. Do you remember?”

“Yes.” She turned to include him, but Jonathan was gone from her side.

“I suppose my bracelet to you is at the bottom of the sea?”

“It must be at the bottom of somewhere,” Martha admitted. “I want you to meet my husband.”

“So do I,” Reiss said. “A man so fortunate.”

She wished he would not say such things. Even in Paris she had scarcely been able to cope with the self-consciousness they caused her. “Is the Baroness well, Nathan?”

“If God is with her, she is well. I was not able to get her out.”

“She is in Germany?”

“I should suppose she is in a concentration camp somewhere. I have not been able to find out.”

“The Red Cross, perhaps,” Martha suggested.

“Perhaps. It is a very tragic story. I will tell you some time. But not tonight.” The pursing of his mouth, the full lower lip protruding, gave his mien a quality of sadness, regret. It made a demand on one’s sympathy. Martha remembered his having had something of the same expression after the incident at the Heldenplatz. She took his arm by way of guiding him to Marcus, and moved by this frank quest of sympathy, she pressed his arm ever so slightly. Lo! even as on that other occasion, he was immediately gay again. “I have not been in company such as this for a very long time. Lakewood I have heard of, of course, but I did not know. You do not live here?”

“No.”

He sighed. “One would need a great deal of money, I suppose.”

Marcus was with Tony Fields and Miss Ling, and with them also were George and Louise Bergner. The introductions accomplished, Reiss was soon talking with Tony about sailing. He had a “social instinct,” as Martha’s mother called good breeding. Yet, Martha thought, there was something about him which would stay her from saying he was well bred. Perhaps, she realized, it was the fact that she knew him to be Jewish. He did sense quickly the interests of those with whom he was talking, and if he was shallow, as Martha suspected, he was so graceful it scarcely mattered. He could, without seeming abrupt, turn from talk of sailing ships to say to Marcus, “I wonder if your wife has told you—I tried to win her away from you in Paris?”

“I’d be insulted if you hadn’t,” Marcus said.

Everyone laughed.

“He didn’t try very hard,” Martha said.

Reiss said, “How do they say it in Brooklyn—
now
she tells me that?”

Again laughter.

“Did you like Brooklyn, Doctor Reiss?” Louise Bergner inquired.

“It was difficult for me to tell, Mrs. Bergner. You see, there is the language barrier.”

Others were amused, but Louise said, “You speak English beautifully, doctor …” Then she added, “Oh, I see what you mean.”

It was, Martha thought, much to his credit that as the evening progressed, Nathan gave much of his attention to Louise Bergner. And she had need of it as did no one else of the women who might have gladly accepted. Her husband’s contempt of her was ill disguised, a relationship Martha found agonizing to observe. Louise fairly shone in the reflected glory of Lakewood’s popular refugee.

Jonathan was persuaded by the man who had introduced himself as Charlie Forsberg to accompany him to the Trophy Room. He was affable with the drink and as he put his arm through Jonathan’s, the latter thought of the Charlie Chaplin movie, “City Lights,” and the millionaire who, drunk, adored him, and sober, threw him out.

“There are some of us old-fashioned enough,” Forsberg explained having ordered a double Scotch, “to want our whisky straight and our champagne with the ladies.”

Jonathan took bourbon.

Forsberg, he would have said, was a banker. He lacked the rough cut of most men on the Exchange or in industry. Having made his guess, he would not have then been surprised to learn that his companion was a meat packer. A generation had done wonders of refinement to the heirs of those dynasties.

Forsberg touched his glass with his. “Jonathan Hogan: the name’s familiar.”

“I teach at Midwestern University.”

“Ohhh,” Forsberg said, the prolonged sound of understanding. “That one.”

“That one,” Jonathan said, and sipped his whisky.

Forsberg was a long moment in contemplation of his own glass. Then he looked up, squinting, probably in reaction to Jonathan’s tic. “I’m an old radical myself, believe it or not. You wouldn’t believe that, would you? Look at my fingernails.” He held up a hand, the carefully manicured nails of which had been buffed to a polish. “I’ve been twenty years growing these nails, twenty years getting the coal dust out from under them. I got my start in life stoking furnaces in the steel mills. How do you like that?”

Jonathan smiled, as much amused in a grim way at himself. Now he knew who Forsberg was: President of the steel company whose local plant Jonathan had proposed to do his bit to help strike before he was “immunized” by the Red charges at the University. The strike had been one of the bloodiest in Traders City history.

“Do you know Clarence Darrow?” the steel man asked.

“I’ve met him.”

“There’s a maverick. Like yourself. If it wasn’t for my wife, we’d be the best of friends to this day. Not, mind you, that she thinks there’s anything wrong with him. It’s the people, you see, he takes up the cudgels for.” Forsberg ran his finger along the rail of the bar. He called to the bartender for a towel, wiped his finger on it and showed the man the dust. To Jonathan he said, “I’m a fanatic about dust.”

With his next drink Forsberg’s reminiscences became more confidential. “I started out a Populist. Remember them? Oh, by God, they were right! Those were the days. But let me tell you, the man who opened my eyes—what’s his name—Norsten Theblan?”

Jonathan grinned. “Thorstein Veblen.”

“That’s the one.
Theory of the Leisure Class
… A man’s instinct for workmanship. I never forgot it. That’s what God put us here for, isn’t it? Workmanship. And now look at me, a goddamned medicine man. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“I think so,” Jonathan said. He had had occasion to lecture on Veblen himself, but it had been a long time since he had heard a lecture on him, however inchoate.

His companion nodded. “In 1912 I voted for Eugene Debs. He had more guts than the whole New Deal put together. Do you play golf?”

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m afraid the only thing I play is chess.”

Forsberg prodded him with his finger. “Don’t be afraid. I always tell my friends, when you’re doing what you want to do, don’t be afraid. You believe that, don’t you?”

“I have reason to believe it,” Jonathan said.

“That’s the boy. This is America. Not any of those other places they were talking about down there. They’re all alike, you know. One way or another, they’re all alike. But I’m not an isolationist. I haven’t gone that far. We can’t let them go down.” He made a slightly drunken gesture with his hand. “We got to keep them afloat. Take Churchill. There’s a man for you. I don’t mind having him on our side. An American mother, you can tell that. Or is it his wife? You admire him, don’t you?”

“I do,” Jonathan said.

“‘Blood, sweat and tears.’ Oh, by God, there is a man.”

“‘Take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again,’” Jonathan quoted.

“That’s right,” Forsberg said thoughtfully, and added, “We’ve got to keep him afloat.”

Dinner was announced, but Forsberg made a gesture of disregard. “Confidentially,” he said, “I think we ought to send the Marines over right now. But mind, if you quote me, when we get downstairs, I’ll deny it.”

“I think there are a number of people here who would agree with you,” Jonathan said.

“Don’t
you?”
His show of shock was exaggerated by the effects of the whisky.

“I’m afraid not,” Jonathan said.

“Don’t be afraid,” Forsberg said impatiently. “Why?”

“It’s a long story. And we might just be missed at dinner if we don’t go.”

Forsberg gave him an elbow. “So you’re a Communist, after all.” His manner became more confidentially affable than ever.

“By that logic,” Jonathan said, “you could say the same for most of the guests downstairs. They don’t want us to get into the war either.”

“We know what they are. But what are you? I was kidding about you being a Communist. I know one of them when I see one.”

“I am a pacifist.”

“That’s what the Communists say they are. And you know why?”

“I know,” Jonathan said.

“They’re no more pacifist than I am.”

The bartender was waiting to get a word in. Jonathan deferred to him. “I have to go down and help serve now, Mr. Forsberg,” the man said.

Forsberg looked at him a moment. “We won’t steal the whisky.” Then to Jonathan, “Just tell me why you’re a pacifist, and we’ll go.”

Jonathan drew a long breath. “I don’t think killing stops killing. I think wars are seeded in economics, and I see nothing in the alignment of this war that does not promise another to come after it. I do not think Britain and France would have stood up to Hitler if they had not finally seen the economic
status quo
threatened. And if we get into it, I am convinced it will be for the same reason.”

Forsberg nodded. “You know something, Hogan? I think you’re dead right. I just wish I could get it across to some of my pig-headed friends who can’t see it in terms of their own survival. It’s our way of life that’s at stake, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said.

“Then how in hell can you be a pacifist?”

Jonathan laughed heartily and not a little because he was relieved at not having been understood.

S
YLVIA FIELDS AND ALEXANDER
Winthrop were married late in April. The ceremony was private, performed in the Fields home, with only the Bergners and Tony present, and Nathan Reiss, who was at the time staying with Tony.

For all its nativism, Lakewood had for many years imported royalty and the friends of royalty with much the same zeal it imported European art, furniture and glass for its mansions, themselves imitative of Old World splendor. By 1941, however, what might have been called the foreign contingent in Lakewood had dispersed, some to their beleaguered homelands or at least to a more useful exile. Some were in the process of becoming American citizens, having taken up residence more becoming their own incomes. Their absence but confirmed the changing of the old order. Many of the Lakewood families realized, as did Sylvia Fields Winthrop, that Lakewood itself would soon vanish as they had known it, yielding to the scythe of taxes, giving ground literally to the newly moneyed for whom an acre or two would be estate enough so long as their neighbors had no more than an acre or two. Estates were soon to mean conformity in, not contrasts of, architecture and landscape. It was, therefore, a society in flux that welcomed Nathan Reiss. His being a refugee, and some might say, symbolically rather than recognizably, a Jew, he obliged the conscience of those who might have otherwise been squeamish. He conducted himself with an elegance of manner, a proper snobbishness, and the self-assurance of a man skilled in a useful profession as well as social grace. He allowed it to be known that he was a surgeon although presently confined from practice by state law, and at the appropriate moments, when, say, a hostess would confide a particular pain to him, he was likely to recall attending So-and-So in Vienna or Paris or on the Riviera for just such a complaint. It would probably entail minor surgery some day, he was likely to say. Once he was asked what he considered major surgery, to which he replied, “With a first-rate surgeon there is no such thing as major surgery.” It sounded reassuring. But some doctors felt there was no such thing as minor surgery.