“The Hammer Works,” Lida said into the silence. “There is the matter of the Hammer Works.”
The Minister’s mustache appeared to sink lower over his mouth.
“The Hammer Works in Martinice....Yes....” Joseph was fumbling. “Herr Hammer has gone to Germany and won’t return. The plant has been closed down. It used to employ some three hundred men. That’s a big potential—which is being wasted.”
“You want it?” asked Novak.
Joseph got up. Lida and her one-track mind!
“I should like to buy it,” he said tonelessly. “Don’t misunderstand me—it’s just an idea I’ve been playing with. It’ll need a lot of financing; but with your approval...”
Dolezhal leaned back and laughed shortly. “Some poetic justice in that! First he swallowed you, now you swallow him.”
Lida laughed, too.
Novak looked down at his chief’s beautifully groomed gray hair and said without any particular emphasis, “I don’t think it is for sale.”
Joseph stared blankly. He should not have come today, not on the day of Karel’s return from camp.
Dolezhal stirred in his chair. “We’ll have to investigate the case.”
“But what are you going to do with the Hammer Works?” Joseph asked hoarsely. “You don’t contemplate keeping a plant like that closed down?”
Novak’s empty sleeve had slipped out of his pocket; he reached across his waist to stuff it back. “The local authorities will have to look into that. I suppose the District National Committee in Limberk will concern itself with the question and make suggestions.”
The Minister threw a quick glance at Novak—there was some hostility in his eyes; then he controlled himself. Most of the National Committees in the border areas of the Sudeten had a Communist majority.
Joseph, knowing this, too, felt a softness in his calves and sat down again. “You aren’t going to nationalize the Hammer Works! They aren’t a railroad, or a bank, or a coal mine!”
He could not—no, he would not envisage having to compete with a nationalized factory. It would be worse than having Herr Aloysius Hammer on one’s neck; Hammer, though backed by the economic and political power of the Reich, at least had been a private individual.
The whole idea was insane! A piece of glass was not like a sheet of steel—from design, through the furnace, until it landed on the shelves of a store, glass needed human hands, human care, human love, whether it was a vase or a pitcher, the elegant arm of a chandelier, a lady’s perfume bottle, or a chamber pot. It needed the intimate knowledge, the detailed organizational work of a single owner, a specialist in his field; a seasoned administrator who was in touch with the glassworkers, knew them, could deal with their idiosyncrasies; an expert who could gauge the market and had the sensitivity to anticipate what would sell and what would remain in the shops forever; a connoisseur who could twirl a wineglass between his fingers and tell you at once who had made it and whether the stem was shaped by hand or in a form.
“You can’t nationalize a glass factory,” he said, “It’s nonsense. Whom are you going to put in charge?”
“We’ll find people,” said Novak.
The Minister’s white hand shot out at the Councilor. “You’re much too optimistic, as always, Jan.” He turned to Joseph and Lida and said warmly, consolingly, “None of these points has been decided, as yet, and the Councilor knows it. We shall investigate the case, as I said.”
Novak shrugged. “Mr. Benda brought up a question of policy, which had to be answered on the policy level.”
“The Councilor is still young!” Dolezhal’s mustache moved, as if he were smiling. Factually, he added: “As a former German property, the Hammer Works probably fall into the category of confiscated enterprises. What disposal will be made of these, we don’t know. There’ll be a law on the subject.”
“A law...” said Lida, her face working.
Joseph had not yet absorbed the blow Novak had dealt him. “Where will you find such people?” he continued asking. “This isn’t like picking a new man for an office chair. Glass manufacturing! Have you ever looked at a furnace, Mr. Novak? Have you ever held a blowpipe in your hand?”
“No.”
“You’ll make a mess of it, you and the people you’re going to appoint!” Joseph seemed to swell with his outrage; the uniform stretched tautly across his big chest. “Forgive me—but you’re sure to destroy one of the great industries of this country, an export industry that we should be building up, that’s supposed to bring us dollars and pounds sterling and Swiss francs—”
“My husband is letting his love of country run away with him.” Lida stepped behind Joseph’s chair and placed her hands on his shoulders.
“I believe we can set his fears at rest,” said Novak. “We will select only specialists in their fields as National Administrators for confiscated enterprises.”
Lida was thinking rapidly. “Are there any other considerations?”
Novak waited for the Minister. But Dolezhal seemed content to listen.
“Experience,” said Novak. “Political reliability—”
The Minister stabbed, “Not in a party sense, of course.”
“Of course not,” said Novak.
Joseph felt the soft pressure of his wife’s hands on his shoulders. He gathered courage. What he was about to do was pretty raw; but then, Novak had been blunt, too. Apparently, this was the post-war fashion.
“If there is a National Administrator to be chosen for the Hammer Works, I’d like you to consider me.”
It was out of the bag. He tried to read the faces of Novak and the Minister.
Protocol demanded that the Minister speak first. After a few weighty seconds, Dolezhal said carefully, “Fair enough. We’ll keep you in mind.”
Novak leaned down to his chief and whispered to him. His sleeve again slipped out of his pocket.
“Right,” Dolezhal corrected himself, “quite right. The Councilor reminds me that if we succeed in confirming you as the owner of the Benda Works, we cannot appoint you National Administrator of another glass factory. It would be most awkward and probably counter to the law.”
Joseph’s skin grew tight over his cheekbones. That’s what he had fought the war for! That’s why he had given up what was his, been a patriot, left his country, been lonely, lost six years of profits, gone into debt! He hated Novak and he couldn’t understand why Dolezhal tolerated the man.
He heard Novak’s cool statement, “On the other hand, it is possible that at some time in the future the Government will decide to nationalize all glass furnaces. In that case, there would be no objection to your appointment as National Administrator.”
“No objection...!” Joseph’s voice failed him. Herr Hammer, too, had offered him a job.
Dolezhal was moved by a measure of compassion. This Novak who had been wished on him, and the people behind Novak, were feeling their oats and talking big. After a while, they would be maneuvered into the dank little corner from where they had come and where they belonged. But meanwhile, they were doing a lot of harm and hurting decent men like Benda.
He turned on Novak. “The man sits in front of you in his uniform!” The ministerial voice gained timbre, the planes on his face shifted, his moderation was under strain. “He’s done something for this country, and this country will do something for him!”
Then his smoothness was unruffled again. “How many workers do you employ, Mr. Benda?...About a hundred and eighty? That’s a small plant. Under the Koshice Agreement, to which all political parties adhere, only plants from five hundred workers up are scheduled for nationalization. Correct, Jan?” The white hand challenged the Councilor. Without waiting, Dolezhal answered himself, “Correct. And about our rule on National Administrators—all rules are subject to interpretation in individual cases.”
“Very well,” said Novak, tucking in his sleeve.
The Minister rose. Joseph jumped up. Lida impulsively came toward Dolezhal’s desk and s
aid, “We are so grateful....”
“Nothing, nothing!” said the Minister, and then, with ancien régime courtesy, “Kiss your hand, madame!”
She smiled. She looked young at this moment, and she knew it.
But Dolezhal had already turned away from her. He permitted his small hand to rest in Joseph’s large one and said with just a shade more than a politician’s usual heartiness, “You ought to spend some time in Prague! We need people like you—with a good record, a fresh viewpoint, initiative. How would you like politics?”
Was it a suggestion? A request? “Never thought of it, sir!” said Joseph, pleased—or was it merely one of those handouts with which big officials can afford to be lavish?
Novak was saying to Lida, “One last question, madame, if you will....You kept the Benda Works going under the Protectorate, didn’t you?”
“Until they were taken from me.”
“The German commander was staying at your house?”
“He was billeted there.”
The smile and the youth were gone from Lida’s face. She had a twinge of the feeling she had experienced on that gray November morning when Aloysius Hammer had come to Rodnik with an officer of the SS, had put a paper in front of her, and had said, “Frau Benda! Kindly sign here—and here—and here!”
However, Joseph, the fool, seemed to be quite happy. Blanketed in satisfaction, he was putting himself out to be pleasant to Novak.
“You know, Councilor,” he was smiling, “you’d probably enjoy meeting my brother Karel—he’s just come back home. Visit us in Rodnik, please! I’m sure the two of you would hit it off well—the same views, more or less....”
Novak nodded. “I know Karel Benda. We were in the same camp.” He touched his empty sleeve. “Your brother saved my life.”
CHAPTER THREE
KAREL stretched himself luxuriously. From his bed, through the open window, he could see the wooded, sugarloaf-shaped Mount St. Peter which, together with St. Anna, St. Maria, and St. Nepomuk, formed a quadrangle of hills in whose valley lay Rodnik. Thomas’s house stood on the slope of St. Nepomuk, on a piece of ground their father had bought for a summer cottage. But they built solidly in these parts, especially if money was available; the cottage had grown into a sturdy little villa, with upstairs and downstairs, and a balcony in front of his window.
He looked at the wrist watch which Thomas had loaned him; he had returned from camp owning nothing but the sweated clothes on his back, a toothbrush, and an American Army razor. It was late, later than he liked to get up, even on a day that like yesterday and tomorrow would be spent without purpose. He pushed back the soft quilt. He slept naked. For years, he had been sleeping in his clothing, reeking of his own smell and breathing in the stink of others. Now he wanted nothing between his skin and the clean sheets.
He examined his body. He still could be used by an anatomy class studying the structure of the skeleton; but his muscles were beginning to return, and there was a little flesh where only bones and skin had been. Thoughtfully, he tapped the number on his arm that would remain with him for the rest of his days. It was questionable how long that would be. If he pressed his head into the pillow and let the bedding carry the sound, he could listen to the beating of his own heart. It was regular, after a night’s sleep; the least bit of exertion, however, sent it into tumultuous hammering, and something was all wrong with his metabolism. At times, he had horrible pains behind his eyes, he was fatigued when he had no cause for it—ah, the picture was only too clear.
Yet, the recuperative power of the body was amazing. He had seen cases of such utter starvation that even the brain had shrunk in size. Some of those people made a comeback, too, and were normal again. But how long would they last? Somebody should begin a comparative study of the future life graphs of liberated concentration camp prisoners. Not he. After he brought his convoy to the reception center in Prague, witnessed the check-up and signed the transfer papers, he had been through. The book was closed.
The book was closed—easily said with the sun pouring through the window. But at night, his hands, scummy with old gore, jutted out at him from every dream and tore him from his pillow. There were the dim hours when sleep would not return, and the horror with which his own eyes gleamed at him from the mirror. Diagnosis for Karel Benda, Doctor of Medicine: Progressive destruction of the tissue of human dignity. He, who had been a healer, had permitted himself to be turned into a ghoul. Of course, he could quote extenuating circumstances—the selected lives, among them his own, which he had been able to save with stolen medicines and pilfered instruments. He could quote Novak who had pleaded with him to accept the job from the Nazis, and finally had ordered him to take it and hold it—never mind, a man makes his own decisions, and he had had to make his anew every stinking day in the abattoir of Buchenwald.
If only it were possible for him to live out his time without ever making another decision! But knowing his diagnosis, he knew his cure. The first new infant, the first new life he delivered into the world, would start him back on the road to usefulness and sanity.
He grinned without mirth. No child was ever born out of the sterile vacuum in which he yearned to operate. A doctor’s hands could not remain clean, nor his mind blank, nor his heart detached. To grow well, he had to decide to live and work with people; to live and work with people, he was not well enough.
From downstairs came the faint rattling of dishes and pots. Kitty was preparing breakfast. Kitty!...If the gods had wanted to fashion a symbol of vigorous life, they would have created her. He was grateful for the sounds of her morning work.
His stomach, it seemed, was recovering out of proportion to his mind, his soul, and the rest of his body. He would eat his way through two soft-boiled eggs, rolls, butter, jam, hot chocolate. He wondered where Kitty got all that, and what she paid for it, and how many crooked deals were involved to set before him such a meal.
He went to the bathroom, shaved slowly, and brushed what Pankrac Prison treatment and Buchenwald diet had left of his teeth. Some time, only not now, not in the next weeks, he would have to go to Prague to have dentures made. He climbed into the tub, turned on the shower, nice and lukewarm, soaped himself—how did Kitty procure such fine soap?—then let the water run full force, first hot, enjoying the prickling of the many firm, small streams, then cold. Breathing hard, he rubbed himself dry with a large, soft towel. He stuck his legs into Thomas’s pajamas, slipped into Thomas’s robe which was a little too short for him, put on Thomas’s slippers, lit one of Thomas’s Chesterfields, and leisurely walked down the carpeted stairs.
Kitty was fresh and pink and healthy and bustling. He liked the way in which she said, “Good morning!” and, “How did you sleep?” He felt her sleeve brush his cheek as she poured him his chocolate. All this gave him a feeling of well-being. There was nothing personal about it. The camp had deadened him to this kind of stimulus, which sometimes worried him.
She sat down opposite him and watched him eat.
“Where is Thomas?” he asked, nodding his head toward the unused place-setting at the end of the table.
“Still sleeping in his study,” said Kitty. “He must have been up all night.”
“Is he writing something?”
“I heard him type.” She hesitated. “I hear him every night; in the mornings, his wastebasket is full.”
“That’s not so good?” asked Karel, carefully replacing the empty eggshell upside down in its cup. It created the illusion of a clean job of eating well done.
“No,” said Kitty, “it is not good.”
The worry lines on her face hadn’t been there before she went to America. He recalled Kitty as something of a country girl—even when he had seen her in her starched nurse’s uniform—a clear forehead, her eyes guileless. That was gone.
“Well, what is he working on?”
“He doesn’t tell me.”
“But when you go in there, don’t you see? He doesn’t hide his papers!”
&nbs
p; “I don’t go in. He’s told me not to.”
Karel’s nail beat a tiny tattoo on the empty eggshell. “What’s the matter with him?”
“I don’t know. Things would be easier if I knew.”
He ran his hand through his ruffled, wet, gray hair, trying to straighten it. Then, in a gesture familiar to Kitty, he put both his elbows on the table and lowered his head into his spread hands. From underneath the screen of his fingers, he asked, “Tell me, Kitty, what did he really do in America?”
“Thomas worked hard. They say America is easy, but it’s a hard country in which to earn a living. For a writer, at least.”
She was not telling everything. Perhaps she didn’t want to. Karel said, “But he didn’t write another book?”
“No.”
“I know none was published,” said Karel. “But I thought maybe he came back with one.”
“No.”
Her hands were smoothing the tablecloth, over and again. “He had no time.”
“In six years?” asked Karel.
Kitty’s words came glibly. She was saying things which she must have laid out in her mind, often. “Everything is different, over there. He had to write what they could use. Articles, short stories, sensational stuff. And then the radio speeches, and his own lectures. He traveled all over the country.”
“That must have been interesting!”
“In America, the hotels are the same in New Orleans and Oklahoma City, in Minneapolis and in Philadelphia.”
“The people, too?”
“The people whom Thomas addressed—yes, I think so.”
“I met Americans,” said Karel, “at Buchenwald. I found them very interesting, very different.”
“Those must have been other Americans.”
Karel smiled. “And you say they couldn’t use what Thomas Benda wanted to write?”
“I don’t know whether he really wanted to write anything. At least after the first few months, he no longer wanted to. Wait till we’re home, he always said. Wait till we’re back home.”
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