Relatives

by George Alec Effinger

  By now, several other pedestrians had gathered nearby. A man bent down and asked Weintraub something, but of course the Jerman youth couldn’t understand. The man gave him a suspicious look and reached for the woman’s purse. Another man ran down the street, calling for the police. Weintraub stood up slowly, somewhat embarrassed. He wondered if he would be in any sort of trouble. Could he be held in any way responsible? Was there something he should have done for the old woman? Perhaps it looked as if he had tried to rob her. Not understanding English, he didn’t know if there had been any other witnesses. Before he could move away from the small crowd, a policeman arrived. Again, Weintraub couldn’t understand the questions. “Ist sie gestorben?” he asked. The policeman shook his head uncomprehendingly. After a few moments, an ambulance stopped a few yards from the woman’s body. The police officer indicated that everyone should move on. Weintraub gratefully took the opportunity to hurry away from the scene. It was the first time he had ever seen a dead person.

  The incident gave Weintraub much to think about. He knew that sometimes his own idealism, his own energy could be a hindrance to his aims. He had to be able to do anything the Party demanded, at any time, no matter what his own esthetic or moral promptings might be. Certainly the people of Ostamerika were in no great way different than his own folk in Frachtdorf. This discovery, naive as it seems, caused no little anxiety for him. He had come across the ocean, fully expecting to meet a nation of strange, barbaric people, among whom he could work in a subversive manner with no thoughts for their nature, either as a political state or masses of individuals. But living among them he had to realize that they were only people, and could not in any way be dismissed with rhetorical abstractions. No doubt the Party, in its wisdom, had ordered him not to contact his superior immediately for just this reason; he was supposed to walk the streets of New York, and thereby learn whether or not he could carry out his mission.

  The very humanity of the American people decided him. Rather then flee back to Jermany, disillusioned and shattered, he resolved that he must carry out the Party’s program. He loved the Americans. He had to help them find their own salvation.

  The spring passed, and the summer. Weintraub decided that it was about time to begin establishing his proper identity. He went to the Ostamerikanische Bank Deutschlands, presented his identification to a rather skeptical official, and withdrew enough money to set himself up. He went first to a barber and had himself groomed in the conservative style of the day. Then he purchased two fine suits and the necessary effects. The salesman in the clothing store took Weintraub’s old, reeking garments reluctantly, removing them to a trash can on the sidewalk as though they carried plague. Now Weintraub looked and felt like a respectable member of the Jerman community. Using his influence, real and implied, he soon found himself an excellent apartment at a much reduced monthly rent. Another meeting with his banker resulted in a satisfactory temporary job, working as a civilian typist for the administrative staff of the Jerman military forces in Ostamerika.

  In these few months, Weintraub had learned enough English so that he could make himself understood in most common daily situations. He had studied the Americans’ habits and customs, and for the most part found them intriguing. There was a childlike preoccupation with entertainment—books, plays, films, sports—that was entirely foreign to him, and, after his rather strict upbringing, very attractive. He found that of all the exotic influences he experienced in New York, nothing delighted him more than the purely American game of baseball. There was a luxury to it—an unhurried, relaxed, yet thoroughly strenuous and dramatic tension quite unlike European soccer football. Weintraub spent several Saturday and Sunday afternoons watching the New York Yankees play. He learned the general rules of the game slowly, through observation. He marveled at the delicate control of the pitchers, the skill and cunning of the batters, the amazing reflexive abilities of the fielders. With the sun warm, the sky blue overhead, the grass of the outfield an unflawed green, and the lazy, infrequent motions of the men on the playing field, Weintraub felt closer to the spirit of the nation he had come to study.

  Weintraub couldn’t help but make some friends, both at his new job and in the neighborhood where he lived. But he was always careful not to become too closely involved with any one person; he knew that his orders might cause future disappointments, and, also, it was always possible that someone he met casually could turn out to be a dangerous enemy of his work and that of the Party. For these reasons, Weintraub was cautious in his public activities and his private affairs; he joined no political organizations, no local community service groups, made no religious affiliations—which, as a loyal Communist, he had renounced years ago—that might attract notice.

  Still, there were a few people whose company he enjoyed often. There was a young secretary in Weintraub’s office whom he escorted out several times, once to a production of Up in Mabel’s Room (of which Weintraub understood little, his English not being strong enough to follow the witty lines of the farce; but the point was clear, and both he and the girl enjoyed themselves despite the language problem), to a concert of the Chambermusic Society of Cologne (which bored them both), and to various lectures sponsored by the Jerman-American Mutual Cultural Exchange (from which they escaped during the intermission). And, after a time, Weintraub found another Jerman expatriate who enjoyed baseball as much as he, and the two young men made a regular ritual of attending all the remaining Yankee home games.

  After the baseball season ended, Weintraub’s life and the year itself took a somber tone. A few months remained before he could take up his serious activity. He began to feel abandoned and useless, living in an alien environment, alone, directionless, and forgotten. The autumn came in cold and rainy, and for the first time Weintraub experienced attacks of pure regret. He thought about how lovely October was near Gelnhausen; the towering buildings of New York were beginning to lose their fascination, becoming mere grimy testaments to his isolation. The newly founded newspaper, the New York Daily News, reported that the Yankees had purchased the contract of Babe Ruth, the young pitching and hitting star of the Boston Red Sox. This piece of news thrilled Weintraub for a short time, until he recalled how long it would be until he could see that famous athlete in a New York uniform; by that time, only the Party chiefs could say where Weintraub might be.

  January 1, 1920, began gray and cold. Weintraub awoke feeling the effects of a prolonged anxiety attack. At last he would learn just what the Party expected of him. His period of adjustment was over, whether he was prepared or not. He felt that he had adequately assimilated much of what the American attitude had to offer. He knew that he understood the people of that proud though defeated land much better than the political theorists of the Jerman colonial staff. It was time to be of service to his Party and, through it, to all oppressed peoples in all nations. That seemed like more of an assignment than he was capable of fulfilling, at least on this morning.

  The trip to the New York headquarters of the Party was unpleasant. The weather was bad—a damp, chilly day that spoiled much of the New Year’s celebration. He arrived at Herr Elsenbach’s office depressed and worried. His field director greeted him gruffly.

  “Please be seated,” said Elsenbach after shaking hands with Weintraub. “I must get to know you, eh? You are from Jermany recently?”

  “Yes, sir. Frachtdorf, near Gelnhausen. Several months ago.”

  “So. And you worked there for the Party?”

  “Yes, I was a Youth Leader in the underground cell.”

  “Very good. Herr Schneck spoke very highly of you. I will expect much. The Party will expect even more.”

  Weintraub only smiled and stared past Elsenbach’s shoulder, out the window overlooking the great park. There was silence in the room for a moment or two, and then Elsenbach stood up from behind his desk and went to a large map on the wall. “So,” he said, “let us begin. Listen well. This is perhaps all of the briefing and indoctrination you can expect.
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br />   “Here we have Jermany. After the war ended, and the treaty terms ratified, our boundaries were extended thusly, the red line here. Our armies, you will recall, were exhausted. From all fronts they were pulled back within the borders of Jermany herself. Except for the divisions of General von der Goltz in these areas of the Baltic. Ebert and his republican henchmen feared Russia, and feared even more the very real possibility of a wave of Bolshevism sweeping out of Russia and carrying away the weakened Jerman nation.”

  “It might well have happened,” said Weintraub. “With any kind of fortune.”

  Elsenbach paused briefly, disturbed by the interruption. “Of course,” he said at last, “of course, Russia demanded that von der Goltz be withdrawn from her territory. Russia realized that he was drawing a force from Jerman colonists in the Baltic and certain anti-Communist Russian generals to overthrow the new Soviet regime. This revolutionary army, unofficially backed by the Jerman government, intended to restore the imperial czarist rule. Berlin felt that von der Goltz was an effective buffer between Jermany and the Bolsheviks, and might stave off the Communist threat until Jermany recovered her economic and political head. Therefore, he was not recalled for some time. We in the Party believed that von der Goltz actually wasn’t a serious threat to the Communist government of Russia; what could he do that Napoleon and all his armies could not?

  “We felt that he was actually building a bridge between Jermany and Russia, that while originally he was planning for the downfall of Communism in both countries, after his removal his machinery and organization could be retreaded and used for the greater benefit of the Party. Russia had two revolutions: in February, to depose the czar, and in October, the final victory of the Party. Our ‘February’ revolution had already occurred, when the Kaiser was compelled to abdicate. But, somehow, we have missed our chance. The final stroke was never made, and the democratic government in Berlin has held itself together long enough to dissipate our threat and disenchant our membership. We are no longer a potential power in Jermany. We are underground again.”

  “It is the only way that I understand,” said Weintraub.

  Elsenbach looked at him closely. “That is not necessarily a positive recommendation. Why are you doing this? You would undermine your own homeland?”

  Weintraub was silent for a few seconds. “Yes.”

  “You may eventually be found out. Then your only fate is to be hanged as a traitor.”

  “This I recognize and accept.”

  Elsenbach turned away from him and looked out the window at the heavy rain which had begun to fall. “You are very much a fool,” he said.

  CHAPTER 6

  It had begun to rain by the time Ernest left the mod-apt building. It was about half past eleven; the warmth and freshness of the morning had been replaced by a chill, depressing drizzle. The sky seemed very close overhead, as drifts of cloud and smog tumbled toward Long Island. There were still very few people out. Ernest was surprised by the quiet of the night. The buses had not returned to a normal schedule, and there was little passenger car traffic. The usual parade of delivery trucks had been canceled by the Representative. “That disaster of his better happen soon,” thought Ernest. “If it doesn’t, we’re going to starve here waiting for it.” He walked along Flatbush Avenue, listening to the lonely sound of pebbles and grit crunching beneath his shoes.

  Most of the small stores and offices along Flatbush were now burned-out buildings, their fronts boarded up, old metal signs now hanging loosely, swinging out over the sidewalk with sudden creaks. There were a few grocerias, a few liquor shops, and a strange number of travel agencies still alive, although all of them had closed early on this special day. They may as well have been burned-out, too; pretty soon Flatbush Avenue would join the Roman Forum and the Cambodian jungle temples as a place to come and stare at, to pretend some kind of sad nostalgia, to abandon again after a brief visit.

  Ernest wasn’t really afraid. He was rather proud of himself for that. It was obvious from the deserted streets that everyone else was home being afraid, just like Gretchen, just like the fuser (Brenda something, her name was. He wondered what she’d be like under normal circumstances. She wasn’t too bad when she was just about to die). Ernest had a wary regard for the situation, an honest anxiety, perhaps. But he wouldn’t go as far as to say it was fear. After all, here he was, walking around, right out in it all, trying to come to terms with it. He wasn’t home cowering.

  Could it be like this all over the world? It was quite likely that each Representative had made the same speech, had given the same executive order, and created the same helpless, apprehensive response. Ernest began to understand why so few people were with him, walking the stinking, littered sidewalks, searching for the very clue that would save their lives. It was because they didn’t have enough imagination. It was Ernest’s creative fancy that would rescue him, he knew.

  “All right,” thought Ernest, “to give her the benefit of the doubt, let’s try to figure out what precisely is making Gretchen act the way she is. Well, she sees herself dead. That’s a reasonable thing to be afraid of. But I see the same possibility for myself. We all have, ever since childhood. So she sees herself dead soon. O.K., I understand that; and again, so do I. I may not get a token, after all. I’ll worry about that when the time comes. But the difference between her and me is in the details of what we imagine. Gretchen sees herself dead, and nothing else. Lying all twisted up on the ground. She doesn’t even know how it’ll happen, and she has no curiosity. The worst thing about the situation for her is that she won’t get a proper funeral. And the real sinker is that there won’t be anybody crying over her coffin. She’s probably been looking forward to that for years. That’s how she was going to make everybody feel sorry, at last. And now the Representatives have robbed her of her single moment of attention; the grand climax of her worthless life, lost now among ten billion identically mere droppings dead.”

  It seemed a petty response to the situation, but the more he considered it, the more perfectly it fit his wife. He knew Gretchen very well, after all; he knew her reactions to stress. If she had had a livelier imagination, she wouldn’t have stopped at paralysis; like himself, he thought, she would have visualized so many of the possible outcomes that each would have negated the other, until there was nothing left to fear, no real problem greater than anything one faced each day, anyway. …

  Ernest stooped to pick up a chunk of brick. It was small, rough, slimy with mud. He bounced it in his hand a couple of times as he walked. He made a pitching motion, pretending to throw the brick through a storefront window. A metal gate was drawn protectively over the window, but Ernest didn’t really want to smash it, anyway. He saw a car abandoned on the sidewalk, its four wheels missing, its doors hanging open. The car had a particularly violated appearance, a deeply personal and ugly look. It made Ernest think of the fuser. The windshield and rear windows had been shattered already. He would have liked to have thrown something through them.

  He stopped beneath a tall streetlamp. Most of the old yellow globes on Flatbush had long since died, but a few still glowed, providing the neighborhood with an uncomfortable, sickly light. Ernest stared up at the flickering lamp. He weighed the brick in his hand, judged the proper trajectory, stepped back a few feet, and threw. The brick sailed high above the target and landed several yards away. Ernest grinned and spat. He retrieved the brick, or one like it, and tossed it again. Once more he missed.

  “O.K., you,” called a voice from across the street. “Come on over here.” Ernest turned around, startled. A police officer was yelling at him from a cruiser. Ernest shrugged and obeyed.

  “Look,” said the cop, “you was throwing a rock at that lamp, weren’t you?”

  Ernest was surprisingly relaxed; in situations like this, he generally felt giddy and dreamlike, nervously separated from the threats of trouble. “Yeah,” he said, “I was. I didn’t hit nothing, though.”

  “No,” said the officer slowly. �
�That isn’t the point, you know.”

  “I know that. You can still get me for attempted light breaking or something. But you wouldn’t want to put me in jail tonight.”

  The second cop in the cruiser leaned across the seat. He was young, and he looked crazy to Ernest. “So why wouldn’t we?” he asked.

  “The Representative,” said Ernest. “You heard the announcement, didn’t you?” The first policeman nodded. “I wonder if maybe you cops are getting special treatment. Are they slipping you heroes free shelter tokens in your paycheck?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” said the first cop quietly.

  “I want to know why we can’t break the guy’s ass,” said the second officer.

  Ernest smiled. “I figured it out before, while I was walking. See, you take me in and book me. Then you have to keep me overnight, right? But in the morning, everybody’s going to be out scrounging for tokens. Except me, because I’m locked up. So I don’t get one, and come the big bang, I die screaming and clutching my throat. And afterward, when you come out of the bunkers and the birds are singing again and the rainbow pops through the clouds, they’ll get you for curel and unusual punishment. So you can’t take me in.”

  “I wouldn’t be bothered, anyhow,” said the first policeman.

  “I would,” said his partner.

  “On your own time,” said the first man. He nodded to Ernest. “Lots of luck,” he said. “See you inside, maybe.” Then the cruiser drove slowly away.

  “In that case,” said Ernest to himself, “I’ll have to watch out for myself tonight. Suddenly everybody is faced with questions of deep moral significance. Right now we’re staring into the face of death and darkness, and you can’t expect people to lie easy after that. There should be a lot of brick throwing tonight. And a lot of cops with the safeties off.”