Presidential Agent

by Upton Sinclair

  Lanny thought of cultivated and gracious Jews he had known in this nightmare land. Those in Munich who were not dead or in Dachau would be seeking refuge in the woods which bordered the river Isar, or in the Alpine foothills, depending upon the charity of the peasants for food. Those in Berlin, if they had not cut their own throats or jumped into the city’s canals, would be hiding in cellars, coming out at night and trying to escape in a freight car or canal boat. Suppose one of them were to telephone to Lanny at the Hotel Adlon, saying: “I am in peril of my life. Help me!”—what would he answer? In the old days he had done what he could for the Robin family, but what could he do now for the Hellsteins or the humble Schönhaus family? He couldn’t say: “I am a secret agent, and my duty is elsewhere.” He could only mumble some excuse which would mean to the hearer: “I am a coward and a man without human feelings.”

  III

  Lanny attended to his affairs in Berlin, and then on a day of heavy and cold rain he drove to the Belgian border, and straight on, without stopping except for a meal, to Paris. There, in his hotel, he wrote his latest report on Germany, and put it into the mail.

  For a few days la ville lumière seemed like home; Zoltan was here, and Emily, old friends whose hearts were warm and whose minds were not perverted. His mother had gone back to Bienvenu, and he called her on the telephone and got the family news: Marceline was soon to get her divorce; she was dancing her head off; the baby was well; Madame had got over the flu. Lanny reported that he was going to London and then to New York, where he had a lot of business, some of it urgent.

  There was the autumn Salon, worth a day of any art expert’s time. There was a lot of nude flesh, but no marching Nazis, and the number 175 was represented by a harmless landscape with sheep. Also there was a visit to the de Bruyne family, eager to hear the latest news from la patrie’s new ally; they deplored but excused the pogrom, and looked upon the Four-Power Pact as the most fortunate event in French history for many a year. The hated Franco-Russian alliance was for all practical purposes dead, and now Daladier had got emergency powers and was able to govern “by decree”; a plague of labor revolts would be put down without the customary weak compromises.

  In short, French politics looked more hopeful to a family of French aristocrats than it had for a generation. They were proud of their personal martyrdom, and considered what had happened at Munich as their vindication. They talked freely, as usual, and Lanny listened to the latest details of wire-pulling by the “two hundred families,” who collectively had decided upon a compromise with Hitler as the cheapest form of insurance. “It means the surrender of our power in Central Europe,” admitted Denis père, sadly; “but we still have North Africa and the colonies, and we are safe behind our Maginot Line. Above all, we don’t have to make any more concessions to revolution at home.”

  It wasn’t Lanny’s business to educate this self-made capitalist, but only to make remarks that would draw him out. The same was the case with Schneider, who was at his town house and invited the son of Budd-Erling to lunch. The elderly munitions king was carrying his burdens not too easily; he seemed worried and far from well. His interests were spread all over Europe, so he was not so optimistic as Denis. He reported on the arrangements he had made about Skoda; he would remain the owner and get generous profits, but would not be able to take them out of Germany; he would have to turn them into extension of plant, or building of new plant, as a government bureau in Berlin would direct. “In plain words, I am giving my time and skill to making armaments for Germany; and if I don’t like it I can sell out for what they offer me, which is practically nothing.” The Baron shrugged his shoulders in the French fashion. “What can a man do, in these strange times?”

  Lanny couldn’t tell him what to do. He could only report what Nazis Number One, Number Two, and Number Three had said about what was coming to the rest of Czechoslovakia, and to Poland, and then to Hungary and Rumania and the other turkeys. The most staggering thing of all was the suggestion that if France and Britain didn’t hurry up and make their peace with the Führer, he might turn to Russia for a friend; that truly was like seeing the world turned upside down and shaken. “Has the man no principles whatever?” demanded the master of Le Creusot. By his own principles he had managed to preserve his munitions plants from bombing during the World War, but he couldn’t see how he was going to achieve that feat a second time. “Your father is the wise one,” he remarked. “He got cash, and took it out of Europe!”

  IV

  One more report to Washington, this time on the situation in France. Then Lanny stored his car in Paris and took flight to London. At Wickthorpe he was welcomed, and inspected the lovely new baby and paid all the proper compliments. This tiny mite of life with the pink cheeks, golden down on the head and lips forever sucking, was the Honorable James Ponsonby Cavendish Cedric Barnes Masterson—named for various relatives, including his American grandfather. Already he had put Frances completely into the shade, and would keep her there the rest of her days.

  Lanny could now talk safely in an Englishman’s home, his castle in which there were no dictaphones. Interesting indeed to hear what had gone on inside the conference room of the Führerhaus in Munich; the little details of personality and manners of the four men who had settled the destiny of Europe. His lordship had been called in at one stage of the drafting, because he had made a special study of the courses of rivers and the boundaries of towns involved in the transfer. The discussion had been carried on in the German language, and every word had to be translated to the Prime Minister. Il Duce thought that he knew German, but his efforts were terrible, and did him no good with Hitler, who made faces. The Führer’s own German was far from perfect, but that didn’t trouble him.

  Lanny had much to tell, and told it freely, on the principle that fair exchange was no robbery. To hear a permanent official of the Foreign Office react to Hitler’s latest outbursts was to know pretty surely what the Tory government of Britain were going to do in the course of the next few months. (The government of Britain were plural—that was one way you could tell an Englishman from the rest of the English-speaking world.) The government were going to do everything possible to avoid offending a touchy Reichskanzler, even to the extent of censoring British opinion on the subject of “Munich.” American newsreels which ventured criticism were barred, and a strict rule against censure of Chamberlain was being enforced by the British radio.

  But the ghost would not stay laid; for there was no way to keep individuals from voicing their sense of outrage in print and at public meetings. Just now a hot controversy was going on over the part played in the settlement by Colonel Lindbergh and Lady Astor. “Lindy” had been in Germany in August, being shown all the secrets of the Air Force, and then he had gone to the Soviet Union and been treated as an honored guest. He had come back to England, right at the critical moment while the crisis was at its height, and, so the story ran, had told Nancy’s guests at Cliveden that Soviet aviation was “utterly demoralized,” and that Göring’s Air Force could defeat the combined forces of Britain, France, Czechoslovakia, and the Soviet Union. That, insisted the critics, had turned the tide and brought about the decision to surrender; so now the “Cliveden set” carried on its already burdened shoulders the blame for the greatest diplomatic defeat in Britain’s history.

  A story ready-made for the Reds and their fellow-travelers! In all the pubs of Britain, and likewise in the drawing-rooms, the issue was debated with heat. Lady Nancy, née Langhorne of Virginia, Conservative gadfly of the House of Commons, declared that the whole story was “Communist propaganda.” First she said that Lindbergh had not been at any Cliveden dinner recently and had not discussed the Soviet Union there. Then her memory was refreshed and she said that he had been at a luncheon, and had “talked about Russia in general,” but she couldn’t recall what he had said or who had been present. The makers of Communist propaganda found this unlikely, and it only added fuel to the flames.

  Lanny knew t
hat Roosevelt had met the mistress of Cliveden, and that he was interested in personalities; so a conscientious agent collected the names of those who had been present at the famous luncheon. Members of the “Cliveden set” found it amusing to be called that, and said that of course they had tried to learn all they could about German versus Soviet aviation, being concerned to protect their country from getting into a fight which it might not be able to win. War would be no bally joke these days, because it wouldn’t be confined to the troops in the field but would involve everybody at home, and what was to keep a bomb from being dropped on Buckingham Palace or the House of Commons? What statesman would want to run such risks to oblige the Reds or their fellow-travelers—or to save for a mongrel nation like Czechoslovakia a strip of land which ought never to have been taken away from Austria, and which should go to Germany now because she had already got Austria?

  V

  In short, the British government were committed to the policy of satisfying the Führer, and must continue in that course, even though it meant stubbing their official toes many times. It meant being told that the Führer was highly incensed at a speech by Mr. Lloyd George, and then at British criticisms of a nationwide pogrom. It meant taking up a discussion of the limiting of air forces, and having the Germans express willingness, on the basis that they were to have three times the strength of the British. The government rejected this, but did decide to modify their building program to meet Hitler’s wishes; they would have fewer bombers, meant for attack, and more fighters, meant for defense. When Gerald Albany told Lanny about that, Lanny’s reply was that it would bring his father over to England in a hurry!

  As part of the appeasement policy there must be a settlement with the Duce—all according to that world conqueror’s wishes. They would recognize his title to Abyssinia and his right to intervene in the Spanish war. The Loyalists there were still holding out, in spite of Franco’s frequent announcements that they were beaten. Now the British would recognize Franco’s belligerency, and would force the French to do the same. Il Duce’s reply to this courtesy was most elegant; when the French ambassador came before the Italian deputies to present the gift, the deputies shouted: “Tunisia!”—which meant that they wanted to take this French colony, presumably by the method of Hitler in Austria and Czechoslovakia. Outside in the streets the Fascisti were shouting: “Nice! Savoy! Corsica!” Those cries had special interest for Lanny Budd, who had not forgotten the idea of his ex-brother-in-law coming back to France with his army. In Nice, the city where Vittorio had disposed of the stolen paintings, he would be only ten miles from Bienvenu; and just where would his Duce draw the boundary line?

  VI

  For Prime Minister Chamberlain and his Cabinet, life had become “just one damn thing after another.” The Führer had solemnly promised that if he got the Sudetenland with British help, he would forget the subject of colonies for a few years; but now he was talking colonies—and in that rude and harsh manner which he had brought into the diplomatic drawing-room. “We wish to negotiate, but if others decline to grant us our rights we shall secure them in a different way.” And what were the British government going to do about that? It was the business of a presidential agent to meet the key people and tell them what he had heard the Führer say on the subject, thus luring them into stating their reactions. Needless to say, no British government ever gave up anything that belonged to Britain; but there were Togoland and the Cameroons, belonging to France, and perhaps the Führer might be contented with that brace of turkeys.

  The inquisitive agent heard various suggestions, all having to do with sacrifices to be made by other nations. It was the British fleet which protected the little fellows in their colonial possessions; if Britannia ever ceased to rule the waves, what chance would there be for the French Empire, the Belgian, the Portuguese, or the Dutch? Was it not reasonable to expect these dependent nations to contribute at least one turkey to Adi Schicklgruber’s Christmas feast? Lanny heard in British tea parties references to sections of the earth which hitherto had been mere names to him, and obliged him to consult the large globe in the library of Wickthorpe Castle. French Equatorial Africa, a huge territory, from which slices of dark meat could surely be cut. The Belgian Congo was likewise enormous, and very fat. Portuguese Angola was small, but then, so was Portugal; she had had a treaty with Britain for some six centuries, the oldest still valid treaty in the world, so Gerald declared. It had been several centuries since Portugal had been in position to protect herself, and surely now she might be asked to pay a long-standing debt. Security cost money in these times, said a pious high churchman.

  Lanny went to London and met Rick, according to their new arrangement. They had lunch in a hotel room for greater privacy, and exchanged secrets which would surely have caused each individual Aryan blond hair of Ceddy or Gerald to stand on end. According to his custom, Lanny put a couple of hundred pounds into his friend’s hands, to be used in promoting the anti-Nazi cause in England. Having friends among the Reds, Rick could reveal that Hitler had just recently made approaches to Moscow on the subject of a rapprochement. “Will they consider it?” Lanny asked, and the answer was: “Good God, no!”

  Lanny wanted very much to believe that; but he was living in a mixed-up world where one could not count too much upon anything. He made this remark to his friend, who replied: “That is one thing I would stake my life upon. It is a question of ideological differences, utterly irreconcilable.”

  VII

  For the first time in his life Lanny Budd found himself coming to think of America as home. America hadn’t as yet got as far in corruption as old Europe; people were kinder there; less sophisticated, less highly cultured, perhaps, but also less dangerous. The social conflicts which were rending the old world were developing in the new, but they hadn’t progressed so far; there would be at least a few years of respite. Lanny decided that he was tired of wandering, and might find a wife, or let his wise and kind stepmother find one for him; he would settle down, read some books, refresh his piano technique, and enjoy the luxury of saying what he thought.

  He boarded one of the big ocean liners at Southampton and had a stormy passage near the end of November. The flight of time was accelerated by a charming widow from California, a state which Lanny had never visited; she looked and acted as if she had money, and made it plain that she liked the son of Budd-Erling and might be willing to console his mysterious melancholy. He danced with her, and avoided any chance of displeasing her by the expression of unorthodox opinions. But when she invited him to visit the Golden State, he told her that he had to be about his father’s business—and did not intimate that it was the Great White Father in the Great White House.

  Ashore in New York, he was driven to the airport, and called Gus Gennerich in Washington. He was shocked to learn that the man had died while accompanying the President on his trip to South America in the previous August. There had been no way to let a secret agent know about this. He was wondering what to do, when the voice, a woman’s, inquired: “Are you calling on official business?” When he answered that he was, she said: “Call Mr. Baker,” and gave a number. So Lanny put in another call, and when a man’s voice said “Baker,” he replied: “Zaharoff, 103, phoning from New York.” The voice instructed him to come to a certain street number in Washington.

  He had time before the plane left to call Robbie and report his arrival. He was off on a picture deal, he said, without saying where. He didn’t want his father to get Washington fixed in his mind, and start guessing about Lanny’s errands. Instead, he told what “Baron Tailor” had said about Robbie being so lucky; also the news that Britain had changed the proportion of fighters over bombers—which drove all other thoughts out of the father’s head.

  There being still time, Lanny called Johannes at his office, and promised him a load of news before long. All the family were well, its head reported; Hansi was playing in Carnegie Hall next week, and no news had come from Aaron Schönhaus. “Oh, Lanny, that aw
ful pogrom!” exclaimed the exiled financier, with a catch in his voice. Lanny said: “I saw a little of it, and will tell you.”

  VIII

  Up the movable steps into the luxuriously fitted plane, and then that miracle of flight to which Lanny could never grow indifferent. Younger men might take it for granted, but not one who had seen it born into the world. Lanny had been a grown boy when his father had taken him and Rick to see with their own eyes the dream of Icarus and Leonardo made reality. That had been on the Salisbury Plain in England, just before the outbreak of the World War; and now the mature man sat at ease and looked down upon the land of his fathers from a viewpoint which they had never been able to attain: cities and villages that were all roofs, roads with tiny dots moving on them, rivers with boats that seemed fixed in glass, farmhouses with painted roofs and fields dark with wetness. Then, in one hour, the white marble structures of the capital, ever multiplying as the interest of America shifted from business to politics, from Wall Street to Washington. More softly than a duck sliding down into the water the plane settled onto the runway, and Lanny stepped forth with his two light suitcases. He checked them in the station and stepped into a taxi.