The Sound of Thunder

by Taylor Caldwell

  It was not until he was almost fifty that he said to his wife, Margaret, “God, for His own reasons, which I don’t think are just, has deprived us of understanding those closest to us, or understanding anyone at all. And that is the real tragedy of man, that he never knows the motives of his brother, and never knows that his brother is asking for love when his lips say something else, usually foolish or stupid. But perhaps it’s not God’s doing. Perhaps it is man himself who never listens to his brother.”

  It was two nights before Christmas. The shop was gay with streamers and festoons of twisted green and red paper. A huge wreath of holly hung at the big window. Tinsel twined itself around the displays on the several tables and counters. Oversize crepe-paper bells dangled everywhere. Edward had used extraordinary imagination. He had bought a very small fir tree and had prepared a mixture of flour and water, sprinkled with sparkles, and had carefully smeared it over the tree. He had then hung the tree with bright little globes of yellow, red, blue, silver, and green, and strips of tinsel he had cut from the tin foil of old cigarette wrappers. He had then set the tree in the window, where passers-by gathered to admire and exclaim. Heinrich was proud. He strutted about his gleaming shop and received compliments graciously. Edward did not mind. It pleased him to see his father so happy, for there were uncomfortable interludes between them when Edward intuitively guessed that his father was begging him for something in a poignant silence. But what it was his father was asking him he did not know.

  Billy, too, noticed that Mr. Enger treated him with unusual kindness and pressed extra candies and cookies upon him. With the subconscious awareness of his race, Billy saw that when Mr. Enger gave him something unexpected Mr. Enger would glance at Edward as if for approval. Edward, sometimes noticing, would smile at his father, and Heinrich would beam happily. The old man wants something, thought Billy, but Ed doesn’t know what it is and neither do I. Yet Billy had his intuitions, stronger than Edward’s, and he began to feel sorry for his employer.

  Edward decided to send his father home a little earlier than usual, for Heinrich was showing the effect of his enormously increased trade, which, though it sometimes stunned him, was very arduous. His son had not yet suggested more help, as he wished to see if the large holiday trade continued after the New Year. Heinrich was being assisted into his coat by Edward and the boy was just wrapping the mud-colored wool scarf carefully about his father’s throat when, to Edward’s pleasure, George Enreich entered the shop, stamping his feet and shaking his hat.

  Heinrich, overwhelmed at this visit, ran forward, bowing agitatedly. But George held out his hand and Heinrich, after a startled moment, shyly accepted it. “I haven’t been around lately,” said George without condescension. “Too busy. Ellis has been doing my shopping for me.” He put his hands under his coat-tails and surveyed the big shop approvingly. “Looks as if we’re all going to make a lot of money,” he remarked. “Good boy, Ed. The imagination is here. I have been hearing of it, and so I came.” He smiled broadly at Edward and continued: “I wonder what my percentage will be on January first?”

  “Too much,” responded Edward, laughing. His father gave him a horrified glance. One did not speak so casually, so almost impudently, to the powerful, to the benefactor, to the hero, even if he were only, as Goethe had said, with some contempt, “the thatched-headed Prussian.” George Enreich no longer seemed gross and brutal to Heinrich, the sensitive and more perceptive Bavarian. There could be good even in Prussians, thought Heinrich, palpitating with delight at this magnanimous visit of the great man. But he must talk to Edward about his casualness, about his raw youth, about his assumption of equality with Mr. Enreich.

  To Heinrich’s sense of values it seemed incredible that Mr. Enreich was laughing at Edward’s remark. “To be certain, I shall demand that I examine the books myself,” he was saying jokingly.

  Heinrich hastily relapsed into German. “It is the Herr Enreich’s privilege and right, and we shall welcome his examination.” He was agitated again. George regarded him with amused surprise. He said in his rougher gutterals, “I was speaking, Herr Enger, only in jest. I trust your son as if he were myself.”

  “I hope that is a compliment, Herr Enreich,” said Edward, laughing again. In confusion, Heinrich blinked and looked anxiously from his son to the Herr Manager, and he was even more confused when George roared appreciatively and slapped Edward on his back. George said, in English, “Eddie, you have the sharp head and the sharp tongue, and it is fortunate that I have the sense of humor.”

  Then he said, “I came tonight to give you a present, Eddie, as we are in a way, partners. And it is Christmas, is it not?”

  Edward was no longer a man at this mention of a present. He was a boy again. “A present! That’s wonderful! I love presents.” He held out his hand eagerly. George fished in his pocket and pulled out a small thin parcel and shook it teasingly at the boy. “It is what you wanted,” he said, then gave it to Edward. Heinrich, freshly overcome by this benevolence, almost danced with obsequious impatience as Edward took his delicious time to unwrap the shiny white paper. A box covered with gray velvet was revealed and Edward paused to rub his thumb over the silken fabric. Now his heart was beating rapidly. He opened the box slowly, and there, on white satin, lay a gold pen.

  Edward’s mouth opened but he could not speak. Heinrich bent over the pen in disbelief. A fountain pen! Of gold, gold! It was not to be believed that such magnificence should be given to only a boy! Heinrich involuntarily extended a trembling hand and Edward let his father lift the pen from its bed. Along its length there was an inscription in fine German script and Heinrich, in a hushed voice, read it aloud:

  “‘To E. E. For the Stalwart.’”

  Heinrich’s eyes suddenly swam with tears. He looked mutely at Edward and gave him the pen. He was deeply shaken; he tried to speak but his tongue felt thick and useless. Edward read the inscription aloud, wonderingly. The pen was smooth and glittering in his palm. He glanced at George with gratitude. Then he said, “But I am not so stalwart.” He thought of his mysterious attack last night when he had been aware of the dark passage of death near him.

  George misunderstood. He wagged his head. “But you are,” he said. “I have no use for those who are not stalwart. It is first necessary that a man have courage, for courage is the greatest of the virtues. Without courage, even an angel is a weakling.”

  Heinrich’s head had been swimming dazedly. He stared at the pen on Edward’s palm and moistened his lips. No boy should have such a gift; it was all a dream. The Herr Manager must be cruelly joking. Or the pen was only plated. That would be much better. Almost praying that the pen was only gold-washed, and thus bringing it into the realm of reality and propriety, Heinrich took the pen from Edward and peered at it. He caught his breath when he read in tiny print: “18-K.” There was no doubt of it. It was gold. It was worthy of a count, a duke, a prince, a kaiser! It was royal.

  George watched Heinrich quizzically, his thick red eyebrows arched. At that moment three customers entered and Edward hurried to serve them. Glancing about him distractedly, Heinrich murmured to George, “The Herr Manager is more than generous. He intends to keep the pen until my son is old enough to have it?”

  “No,” said George, a little hardly. “He is old enough. He was never, I think, a child. He never had time to be a child.”

  Heinrich could not comprehend. “My son is a good boy,” he stammered.

  “He is a good man,” said George. “Despite all he knows and understands, he is still a good man, and that is a miracle.” He took the pen gently from Heinrich and replaced it in the box and nonchalantly set the box on a counter. He added, “I am not a good man, and so it is that I can appreciate a good man, if he is stalwart and courageous. You are lucky in your son, Herr Enger.”

  Heinrich was almost overcome again. “The Herr Manager is very kind. The Herr Manager has not seen my geniuses?”

  George was silent a moment. Then he said, “I have seen Herr
Enger’s genius.”

  Heinrich flushed brightly. The word had a double meaning. He took it simply for himself. He said in a trembling voice, “The Herr Manager is very kind. I do only my best.” His whole body was warm and palpitating at this graciousness. Then, because he was so dazzled, so dazed, he whispered, “I have geniuses in my children. But I have learned that I love the one the most who is not a genius. He is simple, as I am simple, and unpretentious, as I am unpretentious, and humble, as I am humble. We are dedicated.”

  “Excellent,” said George, ironically. Edward, having disposed of the customers, returned breezily. But he looked for his pen, and having found it on the counter, he put it into the pocket of his long white apron. “I shall keep it,” he said, “all the days of my life.”

  George put his hand on the boy’s arm. “All the days of your life, Eddie. Remember that. They are your days and the days of no one else.” His voice was stern and Edward looked at him. His gray eyes narrowed, baffled. George leaned against the counter and there was a greenish flash from under his red lashes. “Eddie, I want you to do something for yourself. Tonight, or tomorrow, look at your family. Look closely, Eddie. You may see something you never saw before. There was a time when I considered you the victim. I am not so sure now.” He tapped his florid forehead. “On some occasions I can become quite mystic. I am not so certain now, among humanity, who is the victim and who the exploited and the weak. It is not my thought alone. Nietzsche has asked it.”

  Edward was silent. He was thinking. Then he looked at his father and thought, He believes, he knows, they are geniuses! They had better be!

  George said almost bashfully, though his eyes remained stern, “I never ask more of a man than he is capable of doing.”

  It was not until he was almost fifty that Edward understood what had been said that night by George Enreich, just before Christmas, 1904. And then, in his agony, he thought, How was it I was so stupid?

  But tonight he said to George, “I don’t think I’m weak or exploited.”

  George shrugged. He turned to Heinrich and said, as if in pity, “My sleigh is outside. Permit me, Herr Enger, to put it at your service, for there is a storm. It will return for me when I have made my purchases.”

  When Heinrich, still more overcome, had gone, George said to Edward, “You are a good man, Eddie. And that is sometimes a crime against others. Do not ask me what I mean. You will know someday; let us hope before it is too late. And now, I have my list thoughtfully written by Ellis.”

  Edward waited on him, following him about with a basket on his arm. A crime against others—kindness. That was foolishness. Sometimes it was very hard to be kind, especially when a customer became oppressive or arrogant, or the children at home hurt their father with contemptuous words or laughed at his ponderous English or neglected the things they should do. It was hard to remember to be kind to the cruel or the thoughtless. But if a person wasn’t kind, he was not a human being; he had no understanding or pity. Edward shook his head as he thought of these things. He almost forgot the marvel of the gold pen in his pocket in his vexation with George Enreich, who tonight seemed to talk in puzzles.

  “What’s wrong, Eddie?” asked Mr. Enreich, stopping suddenly. Edward started and colored. “I just don’t know what you meant, Mr. Enreich, when you said it was a crime to be kind.”

  “I didn’t say that at all, Eddie. I said it was sometimes a crime against others to be a good man. Certainly a different thing.” He motioned to the basket and took out a cigar. “Take care of your customers. I can wait. I think I shall have the sandwich with you, as we did when we made our bargain.”

  Highly pleased, Edward waited on his customers. Not one bought less than two dollars’ worth of delicacies. George nodded to himself, as if speaking inwardly and commenting on his thoughts. The boy is a natural merchant, he thought. We must have another talk about his plans for expansion, for he must have them. He has a great imagination, and boldness also, and courage, and these things are the raw material of an entrepreneur. I never make a mistake. He felt a deep affection for Edward, and he smiled to himself at the plans he had for the boy.

  The shop was empty again, except for the boy and the man. Edward cut ham for the sandwiches, prepared the coffee in the rear. Then he hesitated and glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Enreich. Finally he laid down his knife and firmly marched up to his friend. “Mr. Enreich, when I’m alone, Billy, our helper, comes up from the basement to eat with me. He expects to come up tonight, and that’s why he didn’t take anything down to eat. I can’t disappoint him. We—well, we have talks. And he’s always afraid of being slighted. He’s got a sore spot about that.”

  “Well,” said George, impatiently, “why do you not call him up? We can all have our sandwiches and coffee together.” He wondered why Edward appeared uncomfortable and why the boy eyed him dubiously. Then Edward said, “Billy is my friend. My best friend. The only friend I have.”

  George detected something interesting here. “So? And why is it you have only one friend, Eddie? You have a genius for friendship. Have I not felt it myself?”

  Edward looked at the long knife in his hand. “I don’t know why I haven’t more friends. I guess it’s because I never had the time. I always had to hurry home from school, since I was ten or abouts, to help Pa or help Ma. Never had time to play.”

  “Then why is it you have made a friend of this Billy, you who never had time?”

  “Billy’s different. In a way, we’re the same kind of people. Billy’s worked just the way I’ve worked. We met in the third grade at school, and he still goes to school, though I don’t, and he brings me his schoolbooks every afternoon and goes over the lessons with me. I’m right up to date on the work; I study when I have time, either here or at home. Billy plays the harmonica, too. He’s awfully bright; gets the best marks in school. You should hear him play! He’ll be a famous musician one of these days. He’s taught himself to read notes. He can play anything on the harmonica.”

  George spoke in German, and very kindly, “This Billy must be a genius. Why do you hide this genius, Eddie, this other genius?”

  “I don’t hide him,” said Eddie. Then he, too, spoke in German, and defiantly, looking at George with challenging eyes. “There’s something else about Billy. He is not a white boy. He is a Negro.”

  George puffed on his cigar a moment. Then he said, “So?” and raised his eyebrows.

  “You do not—” Eddie began, much relieved. Then he saw that George was sincerely annoyed. Mr. Enreich said, “Eddie, do not take prejudices for granted. I am a gross man, it is said. I am a man without sensitivities. I am not polite, not cultured. That is why, perhaps, I do not have the discriminations of the delicate and the well-bred.” He smiled. “Do not look so puzzled. You are more intelligent than that. Call your Billy, your friend, the wonder, the genius, who can play the harmonica with such ecstasy. And always remember this. I am no intellectual and so do not despise my humbler fellowman if he is worthy of respect.”

  Edward laughed and called to Billy, who came up at once. When he saw George Enreich, he went down two steps precipitately, so that only his head and shoulders appeared above the stairway. George waved his hand to him genially. “I have been hearing about you, Billy. Join us with the sandwiches.”

  “It’s Mr. Enreich,” Edward said. Billy bobbed down another step, and Edward called, “Come on, Billy. We’re all going to eat together.”

  Billy came up diffidently, his soft brown eyes uncertain and disbelieving. The great Mr. Enreich! The rich and powerful Mr. Enreich! It must all be a mistake. He washed his hands in the closet and ran a comb through his black curls. He mistrusted “tolerance.” He and his race suffered more from the hypocritical “tolerance” of the North than they had ever suffered in the “lynching” South. Acceptance, in the North, meant the lowest and dirtiest and hardest of work, and an ostracism and rejection never encountered in the South, where there was a strict line of demarcation between the white man and t
he black. It meant an absolute barrier to friendship, to companionship, to kindliness, to the real acceptance and receiving of affection. It meant, at the last, less freedom in the North, for a man was not free when he was not loved, where he entered no house except as a servant, where he had no friends except his own race.

  George, who had never lived in the South, understood these things. One of the few men he trusted was a Negro physician, who had been educated in a Southern university, built and maintained by white men, with white men’s taxes under white men’s laws. The physician lived in Albany. He frequently spoke of returning to North Carolina, where at least he would not be despised, and where if he admittedly could only treat his own people, he would receive a measure of respect as a clever doctor from his white friends, who had been proud of him as a product of their own affection.

  So Billy slowly and mistrustfully came into the shop, warily regarding George. And then he saw at once that the geniality was not false but casual and warm. He relaxed, in wonderment, and when George smiled at him he smiled back, and George was moved by the sweetness of his smile and the brilliant intelligence in his eyes.

  Edward had always liked and admired George Enreich but now he loved him. He took special care with the sandwiches, assisted by Billy. The damp snow was clotting in big blobs on the windows; a dank wind blew in even under the tight doors. It was half past eight.

  Edward spread a white cloth on a counter. The shop, at Edward’s suggestion, had been supplied with imitation, but excellent imitation, Windsor chairs, so ladies need not stand while they awaited attention. Sometimes the “carriage trade” ladies would sit and gossip with friends, lulled by the shining lavishness and the celestial fragrances of the shop. Edward drew up a chair to the counter for Mr. Enreich and thought, with some cynicism, that the sight of Billy eating would be overlooked in the presence of a powerful man who, if he was not liked in Waterford, was respected and feared.