“I was sure I wouldn’t be the only person who knew of Einstein’s work,” she said, seeing even as she smiled at Leo the small, unhealed spot on his left lung: another cause for concern. “In this paper, he’s simply exploring the idea that time is not absolute but flows at different rates depending upon where you are and how fast you are moving.”
Someone groaned—Polly, perhaps?—and Ian dropped his head in his hands.
“I know it’s confusing,” Irene said. “I don’t really understand it either although I’m told it makes perfect sense mathematically. But the point is just to think about what it means in the most basic terms: that time doesn’t move at the same speed for everyone everywhere. You know this is true; we all feel it.”
She paused while we murmured and shifted; unlike Miles, she paid attention to the way we responded to her words and she gave us time to try to absorb them. Sophie and Pearl both wrote down her last sentences exactly as she’d said them. Then she continued, “There’s so little time, now, between discovering something and applying it. Barely twenty years from the first hints of the Roentgen rays through the early apparatus to the equipment I have downstairs and the portable units in France. Everything moves so quickly. My fingers”—here she held up her glove—“got lost along the way. The lives of my friends. Time was moving slowly for me as I lived it—I think it moves even more slowly for you—but very swiftly in the world of science. Who knows how it moves for a soldier caught in battle? That’s not really what Einstein meant when he spoke of time being relative; he sees things mathematically and he was concerned with something different, the speed of light and the nature of energy. But in our everyday lives, we feel his ideas in a different way. Do you know what I mean?”
Leo nodded, as Sophie wrote What is the speed of light? and turned her book toward Pearl, who didn’t know. Miles claimed that he’d heard of these ideas years ago and knew of several good books that could explain them far more clearly than Irene just had.
“Excellent,” Irene said. “If you have copies, perhaps you could lend them to those who want to read further?”
“They’re at home,” Miles said. “In my library there. And anyway—”
But he didn’t finish whatever he meant to say and Naomi, who had bent over her drawing pad, frowned at him. Earlier that week they’d had an unpleasant conversation about some committee he said he was joining because of the war. He needed a permanent driver, he said, someone he could count on every day; important work, for which he’d pay a weekly salary. When she’d told him he should check for someone at the garage, he’d made a face like a puzzled sheep. Her mother, scolding her after Miles had tattled, had said that the decision wasn’t solely hers, and that they’d discuss it further when they had more time. Now, as his voice subsided, she said to him, “If you understand it so well, why don’t you give the rest of us the benefit of your wisdom?”
WISDOM: what is that? Like time, it’s different for all of us; certainly Miles’s wisdom wasn’t Leo’s or Naomi’s, Zalmen’s or Pietr’s or Sadie’s. Nor was it ours as a group. The dispiriting note on which Irene’s first talk closed was a reminder of how easily things could go wrong even when we were all intrigued by a subject. Miles and Naomi squabbled and then Miles left, embarrassed that we’d overheard him. Naomi, after trying to say something to Leo only to have him back away, followed Miles, while Leo, as soon as Naomi was gone, moved toward Eudora. But Eudora was talking to Irene, and the sight of the two of them laughing gently made Leo feel so left out that the ideas Irene’s talk had sparked in his head blinked out one by one.
And then a week later, Irene’s second session, which might have been so interesting, went nowhere. Miles caused that as well, circling the room rapidly while the rest of us took our seats and then, before Irene could pass out the diagrams she’d retrieved from her files, brusquely waving her toward a chair.
“I have some announcements to make,” he said.
Naomi stood near the window, arms crossed over her chest, as rigid as the statue of Hygeia outside. Her dark hair, mussed by the wind, tangled with her collar.
“I have to miss these sessions for a while,” Miles said. “Some weeks, or maybe longer. New…duties have fallen on me, which I can’t describe in detail. They have to stay secret. But I can’t stand by while we are in such danger.” Flourishing a creased page of newsprint, he continued, “I want to read this to you. You might have seen it when it was printed, a couple of weeks ago, but I never know what you pay attention to, here.”
Bea came close to saying something sharp then; so did Arkady, but we caught ourselves.
“It’s from President Wilson’s war address to Congress. I want to point out this particularly important part, where he says ‘one of the things that has served to convince us that the Prussian autocracy was not and could never be our friend is that from the very outset of the present war it has filled our unsuspecting communities and even our offices of government with spies and set criminal intrigues everywhere afoot…Indeed it is now evident that its spies were here even before the war began.’
“That’s been proven exactly true in the last few weeks. ‘From the very outset of the present war’—the more I read and hear, the more I am convinced. There are a million German aliens living here, probably half of them spies. Since war was declared they’ve been streaming from our country into Mexico and they may be heading into Canada as well. If you’ve been paying any attention at all you will have read that the government has already alerted troops along the Mexican border to defend us against seditious acts. Troops have also been deployed in various states to guard power plants and railroad bridges and reservoirs. We have to be alert! Citizens have to play a role, and here, where we’re so close to the border and where the forest provides the perfect hiding place for criminals of all sorts, our responsibilities are doubled—we must be vigilant.
“I can’t say more. Others will fill you in, when and if that becomes appropriate. But for now I simply wanted to explain why I need to be absent for some time, and to encourage you despite that to continue with your gatherings even as you’re watching out for anything or anyone unusual.”
As if, we thought, we’d stop because of him. As if we hadn’t secretly wondered how much more pleasant our meetings would be without him.
“One more thing,” Miles said, folding his sheet of newsprint. “I’ve arranged through a friend of mine who distributes films to have some special ones sent here, which I’m hoping will arrive in time for your next movie night. I trust you’ll find them inspiring, or at least educational.”
“But we have pictures picked out already!” Lydia protested.
Miles, folding the papers into his elegant calfskin briefcase—when had he started carrying that?—shook his head, leaving Naomi to reply.
“But don’t you know?” she said to Lydia and the rest of us. “Our Mr. Fairchild is suddenly a very important man. So important he gets to order me to drive him around on his errands. Or change the pictures you see, or—”
“That’s enough,” Miles said sharply. “It’s time to go, I have a meeting in the village.”
We watched in amazement as he picked his way through the circle of chairs and across the floor, his excellent shoes going tik, tik, tik while behind his back Naomi rolled her eyes and made a face but followed him.
15
ON MAY 3, Miles wrote this to Dr. Petrie—
Forgive this note; I meant to speak with you alone after our session but I had to rush to another meeting, and in front of our entire group I couldn’t explain. But I want you to know the truth. And I want your help. I want you to join a group of men—leading citizens, you can be proud to belong—who’ve volunteered to aid the war effort.
My dear friend Edward, back home, has in the wake of the explosion of the Eddystone Ammunition plant bravely put aside his grief over Lawrence’s death and organized a unit of the American Protective League. Hundreds of these groups have sprung up since March, charged to look for ev
idence of sabotage and espionage and to combat the threats to vital industries. Agents gather information and report to the police any suspicious activities on the part of alien residents, and I gladly gave Edward my permission to enroll my plant supervisor, Mr. Maskers, as one of his lieutenants.
But of course that made me think about the grave danger we’re in because of our location. Trains arriving daily from New York, Chicago, and Albany; the Canadian border so close by; a constantly changing population in the sanatoria and the cure cottages, some far from savory and a great many foreign-born: one could hardly imagine a situation more hospitable to spies and saboteurs of all kinds. Who knows who may be hiding among us even now? When I was asked to join the unit forming in Tamarack Lake, of course I said yes.
I’ve been meeting with policemen, local politicians, bank presidents, merchants, doctors, pharmacists, hotel managers, ministers, teachers. A number were previously involved in the preparedness campaign and have considerable experience. I can’t reveal the names of our chief or the other captains; for security reasons we must strictly limit who knows what, but I can tell you that similar units have already been formed in Rochester, Syracuse, Utica, and Jamestown as well as New York. I’d like you to be one of my lieutenants.
Your duties would mostly consist of learning what you can about the doings of your foreign-born staff and patients at Tamarack State, the naturalized as well as un-naturalized and indeed anyone strongly connected to their German or Austrian heritage, also anyone known to have been engaged in labor union activities before arriving here. The police chief and his deputies are sworn to help us in any way possible and you can ask them for assistance. Mail can be inspected, telephones can be tapped; what we rely on you for is information. You may use anyone you think appropriate to help you gather this information, but should in no event tell them about this organization, or suggest who might belong to it.
This is a volunteer position—of course there is no salary—in fact many local leaders have already pledged fifty dollars a month to help defray our expenses, and if you see fit to contribute, any amount would be welcome. Please let me know at your earliest convenience if you are willing to accept this post and how much you can contribute. A badge awaits you (it costs seventy-five cents), and while you should generally keep it hidden it will ease your way with the authorities when you need assistance and also help convince those who might hesitate to give you information.
Please don’t talk to anyone else on the staff about this; we’ll contact other candidates separately. I imagine it goes without saying that you should not keep this letter, nor copies of any correspondence to me or others regarding this.
He never considered the possibility of Dr. Petrie refusing. He himself had said yes the instant he was approached, sure this was the right thing to do and the only way, given his illness and his exile from home, to use his talents. He’d been repelled by the pacifists marching through Washington, white tulips in their hands, on the day the president went to Congress to ask for a declaration of war; then furious at the handful of senators and representatives who’d voted against the resolution. Fortunately it had passed despite them, and Congress was already debating a proposal to draft a vast army. If he was too old and too frail to join up himself, at least he could help make sure that the draft went smoothly and that the new soldiers had everything they needed to fight.
Which meant, he knew, a tremendous amount of work as well as constant vigilance. Overnight, the declaration of war had turned nearly a million resident German aliens into potential agents of the kaiser. Some might conspire with the Mexicans to take over California. Those in New York might help German submarines planning to attack the city. Saboteurs might already have infiltrated munitions factories as well as plants that made steel or acetone, felt or tool dies, anything needed for the war. The government had sent soldiers to guard bridges, reservoirs, railroad tunnels—but they could only do so much, and if it had not been, Miles thought, for the efforts of himself and Edward and thousands of other like-minded businessmen, quietly recruiting and putting into place the squads of operatives who’d listen and watch for trouble, anything might happen.
Suddenly there was more to do than he could have handled even back when he was healthy. Six hours lost each day to his cure chair; no choice, then, but to make the most efficient use possible of every minute he was upright. No more walks for pleasure, no more movies or card games or reading that wasn’t essential. No more Wednesday afternoons with us. Anyway he hadn’t enjoyed our last few gatherings; what difference could Einstein’s theory make when the country was at war? Now he focused solely on his new duties, pushing aside his grief over Lawrence’s death. Lesser pains—Leo’s thoughtless rejection of his offer; Dr. Petrie’s dismissal of his feelings for Naomi and, now, his surprising refusal to join in this work—he pushed aside too, although Naomi herself still managed to hurt him freshly every day.
His own feelings were puzzling enough. As for hers—crucial hours disappeared, if he wasn’t careful, into trying to understand why she acted like this. Looking back, it seemed perfectly clear that she’d approached him and was responsible for the way he felt: she’d offered, back in October, to drive him on Wednesdays to Tamarack State. She’d sought him out, brought him extra desserts, listened to his plans for us with apparent interest, and once he’d seen that, once he’d turned and really seen her, he hadn’t been able to turn away. She’d held his hand after Lawrence’s death, when no one else thought to comfort him. Yet now she seemed to enjoy wounding him. Not once had she worn the necklace he’d given her for Christmas; not once had he seen her reading the book. When he’d first asked her to drive him on his new rounds, she’d balked as sharply as if she had no interest in either his company or in contributing to the war effort. Mrs. Martin, whom he’d been forced to ask for help, had reminded him that Naomi was only eighteen and a little nervous, as any young woman might be, at the attention of a slightly older man as powerful and successful as himself. He told himself that once she saw the importance of his work, she’d be proud to be part of it. Perhaps their bond would even deepen now that they shared their tasks. For the moment, though, she was painfully abrupt with him and whatever ground he’d gained during the winter seemed to be slipping away.
Grumpily she drove him to the hotel where, in the ballroom, he and the other two unit captains gathered with the village leaders to talk about bond sales, medical inspections, registration of transients, new train schedules, what the newspaper editors should print and what they should omit. A hundred details and hardly any time. Miles made lists, wrote letters, carried orders from door to door. Already, thanks to those meetings, the shops sprouted flags and loops of bunting but always there was more to do. Often he was late returning to his porch for rest hours and Naomi, who might have been so helpful, offered nothing but transportation.
On the Wednesday after Miles wrote to Dr. Petrie, he had Naomi take him to the post office. “I have to stay here for a while,” he said, getting out of the car. “To organize something. There’s no sense in having you wait around while we do this—why don’t you take an hour off, and come back and get me at three? If we’re not done then, you can wait until we are.”
“When will you be done?” She flicked her fingers against the steering wheel, refusing to look at him. Her white shirtwaist, he saw, closed with unusual buttons shaped like tiny silver pinecones. Weeks ago he’d seen her sewing these on and, remembering how often in the past few months she’d ornamented her everyday clothing with a sleek belt or a fresh embroidered collar, he told himself she did that for him and recovered his patience.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Not earlier than three, but perhaps a bit later than that.”
“But you want me to show up anyway and wait?”
“If you would,” he said firmly. “I’ll be very late for my rest hours by then, and I’d like to get back to my porch as quickly as possible.”
Inside, he found his two lieutenants near the loading
dock. The mayor had taken him aside at their last meeting to whisper that, while the Selective Service Act was still being debated in Congress, the secretary of war, wanting registration to take place as soon as the bill passed, had secretly arranged the printing of the necessary forms. Forty million of them, he’d said, needed to register ten million men. The main post office buildings in Washington, where they were being stored, had overflowed before the printing was halfway done.
“So we’ve all been sent our share now,” the mayor explained. “Every town, every city. Ours came on the dawn train but we’re supposed to keep them hidden until registration day is announced. I can’t ask anyone for help officially, since we don’t want the newspapers to get wind of this until after the act is signed into law. But I thought perhaps you and your squad…?”
“Say no more,” Miles had responded. Pleasant to have a concrete task, after all the meetings and the long hours discussing reports on suspicious people.
On the loading dock, he found rows of canvas mailbags, each stuffed to the top with the freshly printed forms and waiting for him to take charge. He opened one, releasing an inky odor so sharp that one of his lieutenants, standing a few feet away, turned with a startled look and the other said, “We’ll have to be careful where we store those.” Together they went to look for a hiding place.
Discussions, measurements, more discussion; an argument over whether to unload the sacks or move them intact. By the time they’d arranged the forms in a small room on the second floor and installed a new padlock, Miles was feeling feverish. Down the stairs he went, looking forward to the sight of Naomi’s face and the comfort of the car seat as they drove up the hill to her mother’s house, but outside, there was no Naomi. He walked to one end of the block and peered down the cross street: nothing. Wearily he walked back and sat—why should he have to do this?—on the stone bench in front of the pharmacy. If she felt for him a trace of what he felt for her, she would never, he feared, keep him waiting like this.
The Air We Breathe Page 18
