The Man in the High Castle

by Philip K. Dick

  “The Germans,” Baynes murmured, again rubbing his forehead. Had the pill had an effect? He felt a little drowsy.

  “Being from Scandinavia, you no doubt have had much contact with the Festung Europa. For instance, you embarked at Tempelhof. Can one take an attitude like this? You are a neutral. Give me your opinion, if you will.”

  “I don’t understand what attitude you mean,” Mr. Baynes said.

  “Toward the old, the sick, the feeble, the insane, the useless in all variations. ‘Of what use is a newborn baby?’ some Anglo-Saxon philosopher reputedly asked. I have committed that utterance to memory and contemplated it many times. Sir, there is no use. In general.”

  Mr. Baynes murmured some sound or other; he made it the noise of noncommittal politeness.

  “Isn’t it true,” Mr. Tagomi said, “that no man should be the instrument for another’s needs?” He leaned forward urgently. “Please give me your neutral Scandinavian opinion.”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Baynes said.

  “During the war,” Mr. Tagomi said, “I held minor post in District of China. In Shanghai. There, at Hongkew, a settlement of Jews, interned by Imperial Government for duration. Kept alive by JOINT relief. The Nazi minister at Shanghai requested we massacre the Jews. I recall my superiors’ answer. It was, ‘Such is not in accord with humanitarian considerations.’ They rejected the request as barbaric. It impressed me.”

  “I see,” Mr. Baynes murmured. Is he trying to draw me out? he asked himself. Now he felt alert. His wits seemed to come together.

  “The Jews,” Mr. Tagomi said, “were described always by the Nazis as Asian and non-white. Sir, the implication was never lost on personages in Japan, even among the War Cabinet. I have not ever discussed this with Reich citizens whom I have encountered—”

  Mr. Baynes interrupted, “Well, I’m not a German. So I can hardly speak for Germany.” Standing, he moved toward the door. “I will resume the discussion with you tomorrow. Please excuse me. I cannot think.” But, as a matter of fact, his thoughts were now completely clear. I have to get out of here, he realized. This man is pushing me too far.

  “Forgive stupidity of fanaticism,” Mr. Tagomi said, at once moving to open the door. “Philosophical involvement blinded me to authentic human fact. Here.” He called something in Japanese, and the front door opened. A young Japanese appeared, bowing slightly, glancing at Mr. Baynes.

  My driver, Mr. Baynes thought.

  Perhaps my quixotic remarks on the Lufthansa flight, he thought suddenly. To that—whatever his name was. Lotze. Got back to the Japanese here, somehow. Some connection.

  I wish I hadn’t said that to Lotze, he thought. I regret. But it’s too late.

  I am not the right person. Not at all. Not for this.

  But then he thought. A Swede would say that to Lotze. It is all right. Nothing has gone wrong; I am being overly scrupulous. Carrying the habits of the previous situation into this. Actually I can do a good deal of open talking. That is the fact I have to adapt to.

  And yet, his conditioning was absolutely against it. The blood in his veins. His bones, his organs, rebelled. Open your mouth, he said to himself. Something. Anything. An opinion. You must, if you are to succeed.

  He said, “Perhaps they are driven by some desperate subconscious archetype. In the Jungian sense.”

  Mr. Tagomi nodded. “I have read Jung. I understand.”

  They shook hands. “I’ll telephone you tomorrow morning,” Mr. Baynes said. “Good night, sir.” He bowed, and so did Mr. Tagomi.

  The young smiling Japanese, stepping forward, said something to Mr. Baynes which he could not understand.

  “Eh?” Baynes said, as he gathered up his overcoat and stepped out onto the porch.

  Mr. Tagomi said, “He is addressing you in Swedish, sir. He has taken a course at Tokyo University on the Thirty Years’ War and is fascinated by your great hero, Gustavus Adolphus.” Mr. Tagomi smiled sympathetically. “However, it is plain that his attempts to master so alien a linguistic have been hopeless. No doubt he uses one of those phonograph record courses; he is a student, and such courses, being cheap, are quite popular with students.”

  The young Japanese, obviously not understanding English, bowed and smiled.

  “I see,” Baynes murmured. “Well, I wish him luck.” I have my own linguistic problems, he thought. Evidently.

  Good lord—the young Japanese student, while driving him to his hotel, would no doubt attempt to converse with him in Swedish the entire way. A language which Mr. Baynes barely understood, and then only when it was spoken in the most formal and correct manner, certainly not when attempted by a young Japanese who tried to pick it up from a phonograph record course.

  He’ll never get through to me, Mr. Baynes thought. And he’ll keep trying, because this is his chance; probably he will never see a Swede again. Mr. Baynes groaned inwardly. What an ordeal it was going to be, for both of them.

  6

  EARLY IN THE morning, enjoying the cool, bright sunlight, Mrs. Juliana Frink did her grocery shopping. She strolled along the sidewalk, carrying the two brown paper bags, halting at each store to study the window displays. She took her time.

  Wasn’t there something she was supposed to pick up at the drugstore? She wandered in. Her shift at the judo parlor did not begin until noon; this was her free time, today. Seating herself on a stool at the counter she put down her shopping bags and began to go over the different magazines.

  The new Life, she saw, had a big article called: Television in Europe: Glimpse of Tomorrow. Turning to it, interested, she saw a picture of a German family watching television in their living room. Already, the article said, there was four hours of image broadcast during the day from Berlin. Someday there would be television stations in all the major European cities. And, by 1970, one would be built in New York.

  The article showed Reich electronic engineers at the New York site, helping the local personnel with their problems. It was easy to tell which were the Germans. They had that healthy, clean, energetic, assured look. The Americans, on the other hand—they just looked like people. They could have been anybody.

  One of the German technicians could be seen pointing off somewhere, and the Americans were trying to make out what he was pointing at. I guess their eyesight is better than ours, she decided. Better diet over the last twenty years. As we’ve been told; they can see things no one else can. Vitamin A, perhaps?

  I wonder what it’s like to sit home in your living room and see the whole world on a little gray glass tube. If those Nazis can fly back and forth between here and Mars, why can’t they get television going? I think I’d prefer that, to watch those comedy shows, actually see what Bob Hope and Durante look like, than to walk around on Mars.

  Maybe that’s it, she thought as she put the magazine back on the rack. The Nazis have no sense of humor, so why should they want television? Anyhow, they killed most of the really great comedians. Because most of them were Jewish. In fact, she realized, they killed off most of the entertainment field. I wonder how Hope gets away with what he says. Of course, he has to broadcast from Canada. And it’s a little freer up there. But Hope really says things. Like the joke about Goring . . . the one where Goring buys Rome and has it shipped to his mountain retreat and then set up again. And revives Christianity so his pet lions will have something to—

  “Did you want to buy that magazine, miss?” the little dried-up old man who ran the drugstore called, with suspicion.

  Guiltily, she put down the Reader’s Digest which she had begun to thumb through.

  Again strolling along the sidewalk with her shopping bags, Juliana thought, Maybe Goring will be the new Fuhrer when that Bormann dies. He seems sort of different from the others. The only way that Bormann got it in the first place was to weasel in when Hitler realized how fast he was going. Old Goring was off in his mountain palace. Goring should have been Fuhrer after Hitler, because it was his Luftwaffe that knocked out those English rada
r stations and then finished off the RAF. Hitler would have had them bomb London, like they did Rotterdam.

  But probably Goebbels will get it, she decided. That was what everyone said. As long as that awful Heydrich doesn’t. He’d kill us all. He’s really bats.

  The one I like, she thought, is that Baldur von Schirach. He’s the only one who looks normal, anyhow. But he hasn’t got a chance.

  Turning, she ascended the steps to the front door of the old wooden building in which she lived.

  When she unlocked the door of her apartment she saw Joe Cinnadella still lying where she had left him, in the center of the bed, on his stomach, his arms dangling. He was still asleep.

  No, she thought. He can’t still be here; the truck’s gone. Did he miss it? Obviously.

  Going into the kitchen, she set her grocery bags on the table among the breakfast dishes.

  But did he intend to miss it? she asked herself. That’s what I wonder.

  What a peculiar man . . . he had been so active with her, going on almost all night. And yet it had been as if he were not actually there, doing it but never being aware. Thoughts on something else, maybe.

  From habit, she began putting food away in the old G.E. turret-top refrigerator. And then she began clearing the breakfast table.

  Maybe he’s done it so much, she decided. It’s second nature; his body makes the motions, like mine now as I put these plates and silver in the sink. Could do it with three-fifths of his brain removed, like the leg of a frog in biology class.

  “Hey,” she called. “Wake up.”

  In the bed, Joe stirred, snorted.

  “Did you hear the Bob Hope show the other night?” she called. “He told this really funny joke, the one where this German major is interviewing some Martians. The Martians can’t provide racial documentation about their grandparents being Aryan, you know. So the German major reports back to Berlin that Mars is populated by Jews.” Coming into the living room where Joe lay in the bed, she said, “And they’re about one foot tall, and have two heads . . . you know how Bob Hope goes on.”

  Joe had opened his eyes. He said nothing; he stared at her unwinkingly. His chin, black with stubble, his dark, ache-filled eyes . . . she also became quiet, then.

  “What is it?” she said at last. “Are you afraid?” No, she thought; that’s Frank who’s afraid. This is—I don’t know what.

  “The rig went on,” Joe said, sitting up.

  “What are you going to do?” She seated herself on the edge of the bed, drying her arms and hands with the dish towel.

  “I’ll catch him on the return. He won’t say anything to anybody; he knows I’d do the same for him.”

  “You’ve done this before?” she asked.

  Joe did not answer. You meant to miss it, Juliana said to herself. I can tell; all at once I know.

  “Suppose he takes another route back?” she said.

  “He always take Fifty. Never Forty. He had an accident on Forty once; some horses got out in the road and he plowed into them. In the Rockies.” Picking up his clothes from the chair he began to dress.

  “How old are you, Joe?” she asked as she contemplated his naked body.

  “Thirty-four.”

  Then, she thought, you must have been in the war. She saw no obvious physical defects; he had, in fact, quite a good, lean body, with long legs. Joe, seeing her scrutiny, scowled and turned away. “Can’t I watch?” she asked, wondering why not. All night with him, and then this modesty. “Are we bugs?” she said. “We can’t stand the sight of each other in the daylight—we have to squeeze into the walls?”

  Grunting sourly, he started toward the bathroom in his underpants and socks, rubbing his chin.

  This is my home, Juliana thought. I’m letting you stay here, and yet you won’t allow me to look at you. Why do you want to stay, then? She followed after him, into the bathroom; he had begun running hot water in the bowl, to shave.

  On his arm, she saw a tattoo, a blue letter C.

  “What’s that?” she asked. “Your wife? Connie? Corinne?”

  Joe, washing his face, said, “Cairo.”

  What an exotic name, she thought with envy. And then she felt herself flush. “I’m really stupid,” she said. An Italian, thirty-four years old, from the Nazi part of the world . . . he had been in the war, all right. But on the Axis side. And he had fought at Cairo; the tattoo was their bond, the German and Italian veterans of that campaign—the defeat of the British and Australian army under General Gott at the hands of Rommel and his Afrika Korps.

  She left the bathroom, returned to the living room and began making the bed; her hands flew.

  In a neat stack on the chair lay Joe’s possessions, clothes and small suitcase, personal articles. Among them she noticed a velvet-covered box, a little like a glasses’ case; picking it up, she opened it and peeked inside.

  You certainly did fight at Cairo, she thought as she gazed down at the Iron Cross Second Class with the word and the date—June 10, 1945—engraved at its top. They didn’t all get this; only the valiant ones. I wonder what you did . . . you were only seventeen years old, then.

  Joe appeared at the door of the bathroom just as she lifted the medal from its velvet box; she became aware of him and jumped guiltily. But he did not seem angry.

  “I was just looking at it,” Juliana said. “I’ve never seen one before. Did Rommel pin it on you himself?”

  “General Bayerlain gave them out. Rommel had already been transferred to England, to finish up there.” His voice was calm. But his hand once more had begun the monotonous pawing at his forehead, fingers digging into his scalp in that combing motion which seemed to be a chronic nervous tic.

  “Would you tell me about it?” Juliana asked, as he returned to the bathroom and his shaving.

  As he shaved and, after that, took a long hot shower, Joe Cinnadella told her a little; nothing like the sort of account she would have liked to hear. His two older brothers had served in the Ethiopian campaign, while he, at thirteen, had been in a Fascist youth organization in Milan, his home town. Later, his brothers had joined a crack artillery battery, that of Major Ricardo Pardi, and when World War Two began, Joe had been able to join them. They had fought under Graziani. Their equipment, especially their tanks, had been dreadful. The British had shot them down, even senior officers, like rabbits. Doors of the tanks had to be held shut with sandbags during battle, to keep them from flying open. Major Pardi, however, had reclaimed discarded artillery shells, polished and greased them, and fired them; his battery had halted General Wavell’s great desperate tank advance in ’43.

  “Are your brothers still alive?” Juliana asked.

  His brothers had been killed in ’44, strangled with wire by British commandos, the Long Range Desert Group which had operated behind Axis lines and which had become especially fanatic during the last phases of the war when it was clear that the Allies could not win.

  “How do you feel about the British now?” she asked haltingly.

  Joe said, “I’d like to see them do to England what they did in Africa.” His tone was flat.

  “But it’s been—eighteen years,” Juliana said. “I know the British especially did terrible things. But—”

  “They talk about the things the Nazis did to the Jews,” Joe said. “The British have done worse. In the Battle of London.” He became silent. “Those fire weapons, phosphorus and oil; I saw a few of the German troops, afterward. Boat after boat burned to a cinder. Those pipes under the water—turned the sea to fire. And on civilian populations, by those mass fire-bombing raids that Churchill thought were going to save the war at the last moment. Those terror attacks on Hamburg and Essen and—”

  “Let’s not talk about it,” Juliana said. In the kitchen, she started cooking bacon; she turned on the small white plastic Emerson radio which Frank had given her on her birthday. “I’ll fix you something to eat.” She dialed, trying to find some light, pleasant music.

  “Look at this,�
� Joe said. In the living room, he sat on the bed, his small suitcase beside him; he had opened it and brought out a ragged, bent book which showed signs of much handling. He grinned at Juliana. “Come here. You know what somebody says? This man—” He indicated the book. “This is very funny. Sit down.” He took hold of her arm, drew her down beside him. “I want to read to you. Suppose they had won. What would it be like? We don’t have to worry; this man has done all the thinking for us.” Opening the book, Joe began turning pages slowly. “The British Empire would control all Europe. All the Mediterranean. No Italy at all. No Germany, either. Bobbies and those funny little soldiers in tall fur hats, and the king as far as the Volga.”

  In a low voice, Juliana said, “Would that be so bad?”

  “You read the book?”

  “No,” she admitted, peering to see the cover. She had heard about it, though; a lot of people were reading it. “But Frank and I—my former husband and I—often talked about how it would have been if the Allies had won the war.”

  Joe did not seem to hear her; he was staring down at the copy of The Grasshopper Lies Heavy. “And in this,” he went on, “you know how it is that England wins? Beats the Axis?”

  She shook her head, feeling the growing tension of the man beside her. His chin now had begun to quiver; he licked his lips again and again, dug at his scalp . . . when he spoke his voice was hoarse.

  “He has Italy betray the Axis,” Joe said.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Italy goes over to the Allies. Joins the Anglo-Saxons and opens up what he calls the ‘soft underbelly’ of Europe. But that’s natural for him to think that. We all know the cowardly Italian Army that ran every time they saw the British. Drinking vino. Happy-go-lucky, not made for fighting. This fellow—” Joe closed the book, turned it around to study the back cover. “Abendsen. I don’t blame him. He writes this fantasy, imagines how the world would be if the Axis had lost. How else could they lose except by Italy being a traitor?” His voice grated. “The Duce—he was a clown; we all know that.”