The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) (15 page)

After a moment’s hesitation, Eric spoke.

‘That was an inappropriate thing to say. I apologize.’

Instantly, Jack’s face broke into a mild smile.

‘Then we leave friends, right?’ he asked.

‘Uh … sure.’

‘So … Happy Thanksgiving.’

Eric reluctantly took Jack’s outstretched hand.

‘Yes. Happy Thanksgiving.’

‘And sorry for playing the gate-crasher,’ Jack said.

‘No need. Make yourself at home.’

With that, Eric beat a hasty retreat across the room. Jack turned to me.

‘I kind of enjoyed that,’ he said.

‘Really?’
I said.

‘Damn right. I mean, the Army isn’t exactly brimming with erudite types. And it’s been a long time since I’ve been insulted in such a literate way.’

‘I really do apologize. He can get awfully grand when he’s had ten too many.’

‘Like I said, it was fun. And I now know where you get the hefty left hook. It’s obviously a family specialty.’

‘I never knew we came across as heavy hitters.’

‘And you’re just being modest. Anyway, Sara-without-an-h-Smythe … it’s time for me to make an exit, as I have to report for duty at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow morning.’

‘Then let’s go,’ I said.

‘But I thought … ?’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. After the show I put on with your brother, you wouldn’t want anything more to do with me.’

‘You thought wrong. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind?’

‘No, no … we’re out of here.’

Taking me by the elbow, he led me towards the door. As we were halfway into the hall, I turned back and caught Eric’s eye.

‘You’re leaving already?’ he shouted over the din, looking appalled that I was being escorted off by Jack.

‘Thanksgiving lunch tomorrow at Luchows?’ I shouted back.

‘If you ever get there,’ he said.

‘Believe me, she will,’ Jack said, and we headed down the stairs. As soon as we reached the front door of the house, he pulled me towards him, and kissed me deeply. The kiss lasted a long time. When it was finished, I said,

‘You didn’t ask my permission to do that.’

‘You’re right. I didn’t. May I kiss you, Sara-without-an-h?’

‘Only if you drop that
without-an-h
line.’

‘Done deal.’

This time the kiss seemed to last about an hour. When I finally broke it, my head was whirling like a roulette wheel. Jack also looked punch-drunk. He took my face in his hands.

‘Hello there,’ he said.

‘Yes. Hello there.’

‘You know I have to be at the Navy Yards …’

‘You told me: by oh-nine-hundred sharp. But it’s now, what? Just before one.’

‘So, factor in travel time to Brooklyn, and we’ve got …’

‘Seven hours.’

‘Yeah - just seven hours.’

‘It’ll have to do,’ I said, then kissed him again. ‘Now buy me a drink somewhere.’

W
E ENDED UP
at The Lion’s Head on Sheridan Square. As it was Thanksgiving Eve, there wasn’t much of a late-night crowd - which meant we could find a quiet table in an alcove. I drank two Manhattans quickly, and let myself be talked into a third. Jack threw back boilermakers: neat shots of bourbon, followed by steins of beer. The lights were always dimmed down low in The Lion’s Head. There were candles on the tables. Ours had a flame that kept flicking back and forth, like an illuminated metronome. The glow repeatedly danced off Jack’s face. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was becoming more handsome by the second. Perhaps because - as I was also discovering - he was smart as hell. A great talker. Better yet, a great listener. And men are always ten times more attractive when they just listen.

He got me talking about myself. He seemed to want to know everything - about my parents, my childhood, my school days in Hartford, my time at Bryn Mawr, my job at
Life,
my thwarted literary ambitions, my brother Eric.

‘Did he really read the
Daily Worker
for ten years?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Is he a fellow traveler?’

‘Well, he was a member of the Party for a couple of years. But that’s when he was writing plays for the Federal Theater Project, and rebelling against everything he was brought up to be. And though I’d never tell him this, I really think the Party was nothing more than fashion to him. It was this year’s color, or a certain style of suit that all his friends were wearing at a certain time … but one which he happily outgrew.’

‘So he’s no longer a member?’

‘Not since forty-one.’

‘That’s something, I guess. But does he still sympathize with Uncle Joe?’

‘Loss of faith doesn’t always mean instant atheism, does it?’

He beamed at me. ‘You really are a writer.’

‘On the basis of one clever sentence? I don’t think so.’

‘I know it.’

‘No, you don’t - because you’ve never seen anything I’ve written.’

‘Will you show me some stuff?’

‘It’s not very good.’

‘O ye of little faith in yourself.’

‘Oh, I have faith in myself. But not as a writer.’

‘And what’s the basis of that faith?’

‘The basis?’

‘Yes - as in, what do you believe in?’

‘That’s a big question.’

‘Give it a shot.’

‘Well, let’s see …’ I said, suddenly feeling expansive (courtesy of all those Manhattans). ‘Right … first and foremost, I don’t believe in God, or Jehovah, or Allah, or the Angel Moroni, or even Donald Duck.’

He laughed.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘we’ve got that one cleared up.’

‘And, much as I love this damn country of ours, I really don’t believe in wrapping yourself up in the flag. Rabid patriotism is like Bible-thumping: it scares me because it’s so doctrinaire. Real patriotism is quiet, understated, thoughtful.’

‘Especially if you’re a New England WASP.’

I punched his arm. ‘Will you stop that!’

‘No, I won’t. And you’re still dodging the question.’

‘That’s because the question’s far too big to answer … and I’ve had far too much to drink.’

‘I’m not letting you off on a self-inflicted technicality like too much booze. State your case, Miss Smythe. What the hell do you believe in?’

After a moment’s pause, I heard myself say, ‘Responsibility.’

Jack appeared bemused. ‘What did you just say?’

‘Responsibility. You asked me what I believed in. I’m telling you: responsibility.’

‘Oh, got it now,’ he said with a smile.
‘Responsibility.
Admirable concept. One of the cornerstones of our nation.’

‘If you’re a patriot.’

‘I am.’

‘Yeah, I figured that. And respect that.
Honestly.
But … how can I put this without sounding dumb? The responsibility I’m talking about, the responsibility which I actually believe in … well, I guess it all comes down to the responsibility you have to yourself. Because I really don’t know much about life, and I haven’t traveled or done anything really interesting … but when I look around me, and listen to my contemporaries talking, all I hear is stuff about how other people will work out life’s problems for you. How getting married by the time you’re twenty-three is a good thing, because you’re suddenly relieved of the burden of making a living, or dealing with personal choice, or even spending time by yourself. Whereas I’m rather scared of the idea of entrusting my entire future to another person. Because, hell, aren’t they as fallible as I am? And just as scared?’

I cut myself off. ‘Am I ranting here?’

Jack threw back his shot of bourbon, and motioned to the bartender for more drinks. ‘You’re doing fine,’ he said. ‘Keep going.’

‘Well, there’s not a lot else to say, except that the moment you entrust your happiness to another person, you endanger the very possibility of happiness. Because you remove personal responsibility from the equation. You say to the other person,
make me feel whole, complete, wanted.
But the fact is: only you can make yourself feel whole or complete.’

He looked at me straight in the eye.

‘So love is not a factor in this equation?’

I met his stare.

‘Love shouldn’t be about dependency, or
what you can do for me,
or
I need you/you need me.
Love should be about

I was suddenly at a loss for words. Jack threaded his fingers through mine.

‘Love should be about love.’

‘That’ll do,’ I said, then added, ‘Kiss me.’

And he did.

‘Now you’ve got to tell me something about yourself,’ I said.

‘Like what? My favorite color? My star sign? Whether I prefer Fitzgerald or Hemingway?’

‘Well?’

‘Fitzgerald any time.’

‘I concur - but why?’

‘It’s an Irish thing.’

‘Now it’s you who’s dodging the question.’

‘There’s not much to say about me. I’m just a guy from Brooklyn. That’s about it.’

‘You mean, there’s
nothing
else about you I should know?’

‘Not really.’

‘Your parents might be a bit offended to hear you say that.’

‘They’re both dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. My mom died twelve years ago - just before my thirteenth birthday. An embolism. Very fast. Very nasty. And yeah, she was a saint … but I would say that.’

‘And your father?’

‘Dad went while I was overseas in the Army. He was a cop, and a professional hot-head who liked to pick arguments with everyone. Especially me. He also liked to drink. As in: a fifth of whiskey a day. Suicide on the installment plan. Eventually he got his wish. So did I - as I spent much of my childhood dodging his belt whenever he was drunk … which was all the time.’

‘That must have been awful.’

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

‘This is the world’s smallest violin.’

‘So you’re all alone in the world?’

‘No, there’s a kid sister, Meg. She’s the real brains of the family: a senior now at Barnard. Full scholarship too. Pretty damn impressive for someone from a family of ignorant micks.’

‘Didn’t you go to college too?’

‘No - I went to the
Brooklyn Eagle.
They took me on as a copy boy right after high school. And I was a junior reporter there by the time I enlisted. That’s how I found my way on to
Stars and Stripes.
End of story.’

‘Oh, come on. You’re not going to stop there, are you?’

‘I’m not that interesting.’

‘I smell a whiff of false modesty - and I don’t buy it. Everyone’s got a story to tell. Even guys from Brooklyn.’

‘You really want a long story?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘A war story?’

‘If it’s about you.’

He reached for his cigarettes, and lit one up.

‘For the first two years of the war, I was behind a desk at the
Stars and Stripes
office in Washington. I begged for an overseas transfer. So they sent me to London - and a desk job covering stuff in Allied HQ. I kept screaming to be sent out into the field, but I was told I’d have to wait my turn. So I missed the Normandy landings, and the liberation of Paris, and the fall of Berlin, and us Yanks liberating Italy, and all those big sexy stories which went to the paper’s senior writers - college guys mainly; all second lieutenants upwards. But, after a lot of wangling, I did get myself attached to the Seventh Army, as they marched into Munich. It was a real eye-opener. Because as soon as we arrived there, a battalion was dispatched to a village about eight miles outside of the city. I decided to go along for the ride. The village was called Dachau. The mission was a simple one: to liberate a penal camp there. The town of Dachau was actually rather sweet. It hadn’t taken too many hits from our Air Force or the RAF, so the center of the village was pretty much intact. Nice gingerbready houses. Well-tended gardens. Clean streets. And then, this camp. Have you read anything about that camp?’

‘Yes. I have.’

‘I tell you, every member of the battalion went silent as soon as they’d marched through the gates. They’d expected to meet armed resistance from the camp guards - but the last of them had fled just twenty minutes before we showed up. And what they …
we
… found …’

He paused for a moment, as if censoring himself.

‘What we found was … unspeakable. Because it defied description. Or comprehension. Or simple basic human reason. It was so
evil
- such an outrage - that it actually seemed unreal … to the point where even talking about it now almost cheapens it …

‘Anyway, around an hour after we marched into the camp, the order came from Allied HQ to round up every adult resident of Dachau. The company’s captain - a real hard-assed Southern boy named Dupree from New Orleans - gave the job to two sergeants. I’d only spent a few hours with this battalion, but had already reached the conclusion that Dupree was the world’s biggest loudmouth - a graduate of The Citadel (‘The Confederate West Point,’ as he kept reminding us Yankees), and the original Mr Gung Ho. But after taking an inspection tour of Dachau, he was the color of chalk. And his voice just about made it to a whisper.

‘“Take four men each,” he told the sergeants, “and knock on every door of every house and shop in the village. Everyone over the age of sixteen - men
and
women, no exceptions - is to be ordered into the street. Once you have rounded up every adult resident of Dachau, I want them marched up here in a perfectly ordered single line. Is that clear, gentlemen?”

‘One sergeant raised his hand. Dupree nodded for him to speak.

‘“Say they show any resistance, sir?” he asked.

‘His eyes narrowed. “Make certain they don’t, Davis - by whatever means necessary.”

‘But none of the good people of Dachau resisted the US Army. When our boys showed up at their front door, they all came out meekly - hands above or behind their heads, a few of the women gesturing wildly towards their children, pleading in a language they didn’t understand … although it was pretty damn clear what they thought we might do. One young mother - she couldn’t have been more than seventeen, with a tiny infant in her arms - saw my uniform and my gun, and literally fell at my feet, screaming in horror. I tried to reason with her, saying over and over again, ”
We’re not going to hurt you … we’re not going to hurt you”
… but she was hysterical. Who could blame her? Eventually, an older woman in the line grabbed hold of her, slapped her hard on the face, then whispered fiercely into her ear. The young woman struggled to calm down - and clutching her baby to her chest, she joined the line, sobbing quietly. The older woman then looked towards me with fearful respect, giving me a submissive nod, as if to say:
She’s under control now. Please don’t do us harm.

‘ Harm you! Harm you!
I felt like shouting.
We’re Americans. We’re the good guys here. We are not you.

‘But I said nothing. I just curtly nodded back, and returned to my observer status.

‘It took nearly an hour to round up every adult present in Dachau. There must have been over four hundred people in that line. As they began the slow march toward the camp, many of them began to weep. Because I’m certain they thought they were going to be shot.

‘It was only a ten-minute walk from the middle of town to the gates of the camp. Ten minutes. Maybe half-a-mile at most. Ten minutes separating this cozy little village - where everything was neat and tidy and so damn manicured - from an atrocity. That’s what made Dachau about ten times even more extraordinary and terrible: the knowledge that normal life was going on just a half-mile down the street.