Said the wife, “The man in the middle gets the bullets from both directions; but I suppose we have to take our stand there all the same.”
VII
Lanny Budd had business of his own to attend to. The art center of the world had removed itself from Paris to New York, and the town was full of painters who wanted to earn a living, and of patrons who were making money by the hogsheadful. They wanted to decorate their homes, and at the same time make a shrewd investment, and they were willing to pay for the advice of an elegant and plausible gentleman who could talk about paintings in the same fluent way that they could talk about the food-packing business or the razor-blade business or whatever it might be. There were others who lived in Kokomo, Indiana, or Horsehead Gulch, Montana, who hadn’t time to visit the metropolis but would look at photographs of paintings and pick out something that appealed to them. The fame of an art expert spread in mysterious ways; letters would come, and Lanny would be surprised to discover that these people didn’t mind paying thousands of dollars for a painting that had a proper certification.
With his wife and his old-time colleague Zoltan Kertezsi, he visited the exhibitions and inspected what the dealers on East Fifty-seventh Street had to offer. They knew him, and greeted him with carefully modulated cordiality; it was a pleasant way to earn one’s keep. Lanny would jot down the data he wanted, then stroll in the crisp wintry air to his home, and there dictate a few letters to a stenographer. Everything would be fine—until he turned on the radio and was reminded of American boys dying hour by hour in trenches on the rain-swept hills of Southern Italy, of helpless Poles and Jews being packed into cattle cars and carried to some destruction camp, to be locked in a poison-gas chamber and then burned in a furnace.
Every night the couple tried a séance, hoping to get Madame again; but, alas, it was only Otto Kahn, urbane and friendly but vague. When they asked about an old Polish woman named Zyszynski, he asked what was that, a sneeze?—which was good fun but didn’t advance the cause of psychical research. Lanny had sent a cablegram to his mother and received no reply, which did not surprise him, for he knew that there were censors who took their time and were suspicious of anything the least bit out of the ordinary. He was sure that Beauty would send an air-mail letter if anything had happened to Lanny’s old friend.
Sure enough, a letter came, and he read it to his wife: the old woman had passed peacefully away just two days before the seance in New Jersey had occurred. Lanny said, “There you are! Another case that we can have printed in one of the journals and bound up and put away to gather dust on the library shelves.” He was pessimistic about the matter because he had read hundreds of such cases and knew from the books that there were thousands and tens of thousands recorded. But who would pay attention to them? The learned ones, the literati, had their formulas, their systems of thought, and were by no means to be persuaded to revise these. Huxley said that Herbert Spencer’s idea of a tragedy was a generalization killed by a fact; but these modern wiseacres spared themselves such pain by the simple device of disregarding the fact. When Doctor Rhine of Duke University set patiently to work and by millions of experiments proved that some human minds could call a high percentage of cards that were going to be turned up in a well-shuffled pack, and could cause a high percentage of dice to fall the way they willed it, even when the dice were thrown by a machine—what did these rigid-minded ones do to get out of that trouble? They proceeded to cast doubt upon the laws of probability, which prior to that time had been supposed to be as fixed as all the rest of mathematical science!
VIII
Just a week before Christmas Lanny learned from the newspapers that the President had come back from Teheran, after having traveled nearly eighteen thousand miles. He had come on the battleship Iowa, and Lanny knew that he enjoyed sea travel and would feel refreshed. He would have a string of people a mile long waiting for engagements; but, even so, it was a P.A.’s duty to report, and Lanny did this. Baker called back, saying that the Boss would like Mr. Budd to have a merry Christmas and then report again.
An art expert permitted himself the luxury of spending several days in the Metropolitan Museum of Art inspecting the new treasures it had acquired. He took his wife to see Life with Father, a play that was to break all theatrical records. He drove her out to meet Mr. Winstead, his favorite client, who was in a state of excitement because Lanny had got him an option on a Correggio in Rome. When would the American Army get there, and what chance was there that the Germans would sack the city, as they had done with Naples?
Carrying Indian products from New Mexico, they motored up to Newcastle and spent another of those plethoric Christmases; too much of everything, and yet a great deal of kindness also, for most of the Budds were willing to put off their disputes for a period of ten days in honor of a Jewish baby born nearly two millenniums ago. Lanny counted back: it was twenty-six years since he had spent his first Christmas in this home; it was thirty years since he had spent his first Christmas in Kurt Meissner’s home in Stubendorf—and what a whirlwind of events had swept over mankind in those years! For Lanny personally there had been successes, but for the human race mostly tragedies and failures. Lanny wondered, if he had known what was coming, would he have had the courage to go on with it? Would the human race have had that much courage? Lanny thought, If the scientists or the philosophers ever solve the problem of foreseeing the future, let them make sure that it is to be better than the past!
Early on Christmas morning Lanny sat by the very good short-wave radio set in his father’s home and listened to a carol service from a village near the front. It was the British Army, and in the middle of it General Montgomery spoke a little piece to his troops. The English employed by the High Command is a something all by itself, and “Monty” was a character all by himself—extremely pious, and certain of the Lord’s own personal guidance. The year’s victories were the Lord’s doing, and peace on earth and good will toward men were what the troops were all fighting for. The singing was hearty, and a sergeant said a short extempore prayer, exactly as it would have been on a normal Christmas Eve in an English chapel. To the listener in Connecticut it meant that nothing really made any difference to or in the English people, and that they would never be beaten except possibly by themselves.
Back in New. York there came a telephone call from the President’s man. Could Mr. Budd make it convenient to visit “Shangri-La” on the evening of the following day? Mr. Budd could, and made an appointment for eight in the evening at the little mountain town of Thurmont, Maryland. Lanny was now permitted to tell his wife a bit more about his doings, and she elected to go along for the ride. She could lie contentedly on a bed in a hotel room and work on her manuscript while her husband kept his appointment, and she would promise not to weep if he told her that he was going away on another mysterious errand.
They started early, so as to reduce the chance of being delayed by a storm. There being no trailer behind them they went by the Holland Tunnel and the Skyway to Newark, and on past Philadelphia on U.S. 1. They cut across a corner of Pennsylvania into Maryland, on a road that had been covered with snowdrifts but had been cleared. The President’s summer hideaway, which he had come to like so well that he used it in winter too, was in a low range of mountains called the Catoctins, and the little hotel in the near-by village was enjoying a tremendous war boom, because of the military and other VIP’s who came for conferences. Baker had seen to it that the P.A. had a room, and there the couple rested, then enjoyed a walk, and after that a dinner. Winter in the country is delightful to city folk who have money and can enjoy modern conveniences wherever they go.
IX
The P.A. went out in the darkness and strolled, and a car came along and picked him up. They sped out of town and into the hills, on a winding road that had taken a lot of labor to build. But labor had been the cheapest thing in America at that time, for this had been one of the CCC camps, where idle young men were put to work during the great depression. No
w labor was scarce in America, and so was everything else. As the car lights picked out the tree-clad slopes, Lanny asked, “How is the Boss?” The reply was, “They are working him hard.” And the visitor could be sure that was an understatement.
The camp had a military guard under the direction of the Secret Service; but there were few formalities where Baker was concerned. There was a list, and Lanny’s name was on it, and the car drove in. The main building of the camp was low, one-storied, and rustic in style. Lanny sat in the reception hall, with the burlesque map of Shangri-La on the wall. He had to wait only a minute or two, and then was taken to the President’s room, which was small and plain, with half a dozen pieces of cheap white-painted furniture.
The crippled man was in bed, as always when Lanny saw him. He had on his blue crew-necked sweater that the moths had got into—but he still clung to it. The moths of sorrow had not been able to damage his smile that Lanny loved; no matter how many cares he had or how tired he was, he would summon up a smile for a friend, and some joshing remark or amusing story out of the political and social world of Washington. Now his face was lined and his bed was piled with documents that required attention; but he remembered Lanny’s last visit and remarked, “I see you have got back your weight. Be careful you don’t overdo it.”
Lanny said, “You should have seen me, Governor, the day I came out of Italy. I had about an inch of brown beard. I’d have brought it home to show it, only I was afraid my wife would faint.”
This time it was F.D.R. who had had the adventures, and it pleased him to tell them. He had been taken to Oran on the battleship, and a U-boat had been sunk trying to get him in the Strait of Gibraltar. He had been flown to Cairo, and before landing had been taken on a little side trip to see the Sphinx and the Pyramids. In Cairo he and Churchill had had their first consultation with Chiang Kai-shek—Stalin wouldn’t meet him because there was no war between Russia and Japan. Madame Chiang had come to act as her husband’s translator, and she had clapped her hands to summon the servants—in this case American GI’s, who didn’t like it the least bit. Lanny remarked, “She has lived in America long enough to know that that is not our custom.” To which the President answered, “Don’t quote me, but I suspect that she may be getting a little bit too big for her Chinese breeches.”
Next had come the trip to Teheran; it was just a short flight over the Russian border, but was as far as the Red Marshal would come. F.D.R. told about the flight—over the Suez Canal, and circling both Jerusalem and Bagdad on the way. They had landed at a Russian airport on the outskirts of Teheran, and the President had gone to stay at the American Legation, in a walled area outside the city; but the Russians were disturbed about this, because thirty-eight German paratroopers had just been dropped in the neighborhood, and six of them were still at large. One sharpshooter would be enough for their purposes, so the President consented to move to the Russian Embassy, which was inside the city, and where the Big Three could meet without having to travel.
Lanny’s Boss was as happy as a schoolboy telling the good story of how this transfer had been carried out. It was evident by now that the enemy knew everything that was going on; so a cavalcade of armed jeeps was got up, and the route was lined solid with soldiers, and a Secret Service man rigged up as the President rode solemnly through the main streets, acknowledging the applause of the populace. In the meantime the President was put into another car and, with only one jeep preceding, rode at high speed through the back streets of this aged and crowded city, and so to the Russian compound—without any German sharpshooter getting a crack at him.
At last the American Commander-in-Chief had had his heart’s desire and met the Russian Commander-in-Chief face to face. “How did you find him?” Lanny asked, and the answer was, “As you described him. He is a small man, but wears a big uniform. I had come determined to make friends, but it was pretty hard at first, for he seemed suspicious, and in a dour mood. I knew how little he liked Winston, so I had the happy thought to kid a British Tory, telling him that he was in a bad mood, and was an agent of imperialism. The more cross Winston got, the better Stalin liked it, and finally he burst out laughing. After that we got along famously.”
“How did you make out with the banquets?” inquired the P.A.
“I observed that Stalin went easy on the endless toasts that seem to be essential; so I did the same. Winston, of course, could have drunk all the vodka in the house and never shown the effects of it. The party lasted for four days, and Uncle Joe got most of what he wanted; enough to make sure of keeping him in the war. He absolutely demanded a Channel crossing next spring, and he helped us to bowl Winston over in that little matter. The Russians are to make the heaviest possible attack at the same time, and that is all we need. We agreed to be friends, and to meet again and work out details. If I can have my way it won’t be in the capital of Iran, for that is surely one hellhole.”
“From what I’ve been told,” commented the P.A., “you were in more danger of typhoid and cholera than of German paratroopers.”
“Imagine it, if you can. There are some modern business buildings in the city, but the only ones that have clean water are the legations, which have it piped down from the mountains. The rest of the town scoops up drinking water out of the running gutters, which are also the sewers—there are no others. And yet the Shah and his court derive an enormous income from the American and British oil companies! Something will have to be done to those birds before long!”
X
So far the Boss had done most of the talking; he wanted it that way—it was his form of relaxation. Good form suggested that Lanny should wait, and he did so. At last the other stopped and said, “Tell me what you have been doing.”
“You told me to take a vacation, Governor, and I obeyed. We took a motor trip to the town of Budd, New Mexico.” Lanny told about the horrors he had seen preparing there, and then about the different kinds of horrors he had come upon in Hollywood and San Simeon. “I met a number of pro-Fascist and Nazi sharpshooters,” he said, “but I think they have given up their idea of getting you with steel bullets; they are preparing a battle of gold and silver bullets for next year. Take it from me, they are filling up their arsenal. The motion picture industry will raise more money to beat you than they did to beat the End Poverty in California movement ten years ago.”
The other smiled. “By next year we should be in Germany, and we should manage to pick up quite a lot of campaign ammunition there.”
Lanny’s conscience troubled him when he kept this overworked man chatting. So he chose the moment to inquire, “What did you have in mind for me, Governor?”
“It may sound like another holiday to a man who has been in the Axis countries. Have you ever visited the Holy Land?”
“Never.”
“I suppose you have a general idea of what is shaping up there. For the past twenty years the agents, first of Mussolini and then of Hitler, have been stirring up the Arabs against both Jews and British; there were five Arab revolts before this war began, and now the Arab lands have been getting together against the Jews in Palestine. The Arabs are fanatics and so are the Zionists, so it’s a religious quarrel as well as economic. You know how nasty that can be.”
“The nastiest in this world, Governor.”
“It’s Britain’s problem; but we are discovering day by day that all Britain’s problems are ours. A few days ago we learned that two of the most violent Arab agitators have escaped from British custody in Jerusalem, and that will mean more trouble. The Axis is spending money to bring about another revolt, and we surely don’t want any during this war. I have promised that the next time I go abroad, which will be in a month or two, I will have a meeting with King Ibn Saud and other Arab rulers. I shall have to know what I’m talking about.”
“You have to know about too many things,” put in the P.A. with friendly sorrow.
“Harry Hopkins is worried about the situation and thinks that something will have to be done in th
e way of mediation. He suggested you as the man to go there and stay for a while and give us an impartial report.”
“Well, Governor, I can surely promise impartiality. I’ll be starting from scratch.”
“What we want is to lick the Axis, and after that to settle disputes on a reasonable basis and get the nations together to protect the peace.”
“Would I go as an official agent?”
“I think you should slip in unobtrusively and talk with all sides as a friend. If you went as my representative, everybody would stand on ceremony and insist on his maximum demands. Can you think of any art business that would take you to Palestine?”
“I can’t think of any offhand, but no doubt I could learn of something in the libraries, and I could get one of my clients to write me a letter giving me a commission. I suppose that archeological research has been suspended for the duration, but I might be talking over plans for something to start up when the war is over.”
“Good! If you wanted a museum to commission you, that could be arranged. Have you used up that money I gave you?”
“Only a small part of it, Governor.”
“Well, use the rest on this.”
“One thing more. My wife is a shrewd woman, and in California she served as an extra pair of eyes. She talks to the women—something a man can’t do in Arab lands.”
“Take her along, by all means. I want you to have a talk with Harry, he has a lot of ideas. Choose your route to get there, and Baker will fix you up. Good-by, and take care of yourself.”
“The same to you, Governor. You are in more danger than I, because so many people are trying to kill you with overwork.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a rabbit’s foot in my pocket! I am predestined to see this job through.”
One Clear Call I Page 49
