‘Max, as I have already told you, your niece is understandably excited by the good news that has occurred. Before I put her on—and in order to prevent any misunderstanding of what she tells you—I had better present the news first. You must prepare yourself for a shock.’
Once more, Eckart’s voice paused, and now, for the first time since Craig had started listening, an intimation of benumbing horror ran through him. He did not like ‘good news’ that had ‘excited’ Emily and would ‘shock’ Stratman. He did not like ‘good news’ that had to be transmitted in this fashion to conceal and protect the speaker’s ‘whereabouts’. He did not like or trust the ‘old friend’ unknown to him. With desperate attentiveness, he listened to the rubbing of the tape, and then the Teutonic recorded voice came on again.
‘Max, listen carefully. Your brother Walther is alive. Yes, I will repeat this for you, so there is no mistake. Walther Stratman is alive. He is here in Stockholm. He is with me in this room right now. He is seated beside Emily. They have had their reunion. I know you are stunned. I was no less amazed when I learnt the good news yesterday. When you and I met for lunch previously, it was you who declared that you had heard he was dead, killed by the Russians at the end of the war. It was I who reminded you that he was known to be missing and only presumed dead. And it was I who had to tell you that only recently he was announced as legally dead. But the fact is—by what means is of no relevance at this time—I found Walther alive and healthy in Russia. What had deceived me, all of us in East Berlin, is that these many years he has lived and worked under the name of Dr. Kurt Lipski. The metamorphosis from Walther Stratman to Kurt Lipski had been engineered by Soviet authorities immediately after the war, for reasons of security. Once I was certain of this, I convinced the Soviets that a better use could be made of a Walther resurrected than a Walther supposedly dead. I also convinced them that Walther, under proper circumstances, deserved freedom of choice as to where he wished to live and work in the future. The Soviet authorities graciously permitted Walther to be flown to neutral Sweden. He arrived this morning. He has been with me since his arrival. The moment I had him, I tried to locate you. I knew you would want to see your brother at once. Because you were unavailable, I brought Emily here, in your place, to be reunited with her father. I will now permit your niece to confirm what I have said and to speak for herself. One moment.’
Eckart’s voice stopped, as if severed by a cleaver. The rubbing of the tape was the only sound. Except for pressing the earplug deeper, Craig had made no other movement during this recital, lest he lose a single word. Even his emotions had been frozen into unnatural attitudes of diligence. He was like one who, except for ear and brain, had been turned to stone by a dark force. Craig waited and listened. But as seconds passed, his mind began to admit thoughts of Walther alive, of Emily with him, of what this must mean to Emily, of what it would mean to Max Stratman, and, inevitably, of this Eckart’s design and purpose.
The smooth passage of the tape in Craig’s ear was suddenly disturbed by a loud click, and then a female voice, more distant, came through.
‘Uncle Max, this is Emily.’ Craig was not sure. Was it Emily? He had anticipated an ‘excited’ tone. The feminine voice was lackadaisical. Craig concentrated. The feminine voice resumed. ‘Uncle Max, it is Emily. They brought me here to meet Papa. At first I didn’t recognize him, and then I did. It is Papa. Yes. There is no mistake or trick. He is well—he is—he is in good spirits, and wants to see you, too. It’s all so sudden and surprising—I’m afraid I’m mixed up. Actually, when I saw him—’
The feminine voice stopped abruptly, edited out. Now Craig was sure, more than sure, positive. The tape was true. The voice flat and low, oddly disinterested and heavy with sleep as if drugged, was the voice of Emily Stratman, and none other.
That moment, Emily’s voice dragged through the earplug, verifying Craig’s suspicion. ‘—but now, because of the way I am, so mixed up, they gave me sedation, and I must rest a little while. Uncle Max, I’m so confused I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what will happen.’ The blank tape took over, until Emily’s tired voice rode it once more. ‘Uncle Max, Dr. Eckart says the Russians have agreed to let Papa go free and live in America if you will take the job that was offered to you—the job in the university in East Berlin. I don’t know what to say. I can’t think. Dr. Eckart will explain. I don’t want you to do it. You can’t do it. But I don’t want them to take Papa back either.’ The slightest pause, and then Emily was saying, ‘They tell me to assure you I am not in danger, and whatever you decide, I will be released tonight after the Nobel Ceremony. At that time, they will either take Papa back or take you.’ Suddenly Emily’s voice pitched higher, came alive in agitation, defying her sedation, and then broke. ‘Oh, Uncle Max, they want you, but please, please—’ The next portion was edited out, and only the last of Emily’s plea was retained. ‘—what is best for you.’ The tape rubbed on and on.
Shaken, Craig stared down at the miniature recorder. Through the upper slot, he could see that three-quarters of the tiny spool had run its course, and one quarter remained to be unreeled. He waited.
The Teutonic male voice had returned, but now, in some subtle way, changed, more clipped, more positive, more confident. ‘Max, you have just heard your niece address you without coercion. Everything she has told you—about your brother’s presence, her own situation, your necessity to make a decision—is true. I will spell out our terms—let us say our offer to you—precisely. I ask you to listen with attention. It is our desire that you defect from the West and join the peace corps of scientists in East Berlin, capital of the Fatherland. You will be treated with the honours and care commensurate with your high position in the world. Between five and six o’clock this afternoon, after you have received your Nobel Prize from the King, you will make your acceptance speech. In this speech, you will announce your change of allegiance. It will be televised, and we will be watching and listening. If you agree to this, you will return from Concert Hall to your suite in the Grand Hotel after the programme. You will be contacted there, and ultimately, sometime tonight, you will be brought to me. I, in turn, will take you to your brother and niece. Before midnight, the exchange will be effected. Walther and Emily will be released in Stockholm and be free to go to America. You will accompany me—the method of transport I cannot disclose—to your new and better life. Should you fail to agree to these terms, and persist in working as a tool of American capitalism, it will mean the rejection and loss of your brother, Walther Stratman. You will not see him again in your life, and he will be returned, against his wishes, to the custody of the Soviet Russians. Since you are a man of good will, and of good conscience, I have no doubt that your conscience will guide you correctly. You will not forget, I am certain, that it was Walther’s sacrifice on your behalf in 1945 that allowed you the so called freedom that he desired, and permitted you to gain the honours and comforts tha t are now yours. To forget this, to ignore the post we offer you, will condemn your brother to continued exile in a land he hates, and keep him from finishing his years with the beloved daughter he has longed for and loved.’
There was the shortest pause, and then the voice concluded. ‘Max, we have made you a reasonable offer. Do not destroy it, or endanger those near and dear to you, by going to the Swedish security police. They will not find me. Nor will they find Walther or Emily. Act as I have suggested, one way or the other, but act on your own. Any other course will prove foolhardy. Mit herzlichen Grüssen, Max.’
There was a click, the endless rubbing, and not another word in Craig’s ear.
His hand darted to the machine, pulling the tiny lever to ‘Stop’. He hesitated a moment, the torrent of information scrambled and dancing in his head. Had he heard it rightly? Had he missed anything important? He wanted to hear Emily’s voice again, to test and judge the degree of her agitation and feeling. That, and to hear her. He gripped the rewind knob in his fingers and quickly reversed the tape. He edged the lever to ‘Play’,
cupped his hand over the earplug, and listened for eternal mute minutes. There was nothing, no voice, no sound of any kind, except the mocking rasp of the tape as it wound in its circle. Finally, he realized the recorded tape had been automatically erased after it had played, through use of some unusual device. All he had heard would never be heard again. The future of the three Stratmans was in his hands—in his head, really—their predicament and the condition surrounding their future. Craig stopped the playback and removed the plug from his ear.
He stood in the entry hall and tried to think. In his entire life, he had never heard anything more stupefying, unless it had been the first news of Harriet’s death. And now, in a sense, he had tuned in on the death of a second human being, were he Max or Walther Stratman. He was overcome by an apathy induced by the impossible: to save Emily’s father and yet save Max Stratman. But quickly the apathy passed, and necessity and responsibility mothered clarity.
To whom could he go? Where could he turn? What was right? What was wrong?
There was an easy but dreadful solution, of course. He need only awaken Max Stratman, soberly repeat every detail that had been on the incredible tape, and if Stratman believed him (and Craig thought that he would), Stratman himself could carry the burden of the decision into Concert Hall in two hours. It was tempting, dangerously tempting, this notion, to awaken Stratman and let him decide between his brother’s freedom and his nation’s need.
And then, at once, the notion of what he had been tempted to do sickened Craig, and gave him the old revulsion towards himself, which he now understood more clearly. If he performed in the old, smooth way—running from a shout of distress in the night, ducking away from an uneven gang beating in the street, hiding from reality and his debt to existence by the soft coma of drink and drug and self-pity and inaction and retreat—he would leave this northern place as he had come, a riven and dismembered man, lost to himself and his time, the eternal victim of all unseen fears. The test was finally the test of his bedrock character. Victory or failure was not the criterion of the test. Responsible action was the criterion. No, of one thing he was certain at last—he would not awaken poor old Stratman.
Yet, merely to prove something to himself, he could not be careless enough to accept a dare that would trifle with another’s life. And it was more than that now, because now he knew that Emily’s future was his own, and so this had come down to self-survival at last. To whom could he turn? The Swedish security police, of course. But even if they believed his wild story—and they might, because of his Nobel stature—what could they do? Eckart would evaporate, Walther would be whisked away, and Emily would long be a corpse in some narrow alley or a hostage in her hated Germany, before the police, without clues, could pick up her trail. The slow noisy wheels of officialdom, he decided, were to be ignored.
But then, what else? There was only himself, with his knowledge, and no other. He, himself, on the trail? It was ridiculous. He had created too many books not to know of what fiction was made. In books, most often, you knew the end result, the solution, and you tried, as credibly as possible, to manipulate your characters towards it. But this was awful life, where the end result, the solution, was unknown, and therefore the hero character, taking up the gauntlet, had to go forth aimlessly in a maze, towards a destination that had no existence and towards a climax that could not be predicted. If he were writing—and an old nostalgia for that happy hideout enclosed him—how simple it would be. His writer’s mind revolved and wrote: a strange polar city blanketed in snow, a beautiful girl in hidden custody, a bizarre ransom note, two ideologies at war over the payment, and the attractive young man in the trench coat, treading his way through lonely foreign streets where dangers lurked, but always drawing nearer, as clue gave him clue, as—hell, and to hell with it!
He broke off the contrived fantasy and tried to think harder. There was no knowledge of international intrigue—euphemism for plain filthy blackmail—in the true experience of his life. Except for his reading of documented books, and hearing of occasional Communist fanatics, like the one Lilly’s Hungarian, Nicholas Daranyi, had told him about—what was the name? Enbom, yes, Enbom, the Swede with Communist sympathies who had sold secrets to the Russians—except for such true . . .
Suddenly Craig stiffened. His mind leaped to one sound possibility. Daranyi, Nicholas Daranyi.
Craig tried to recollect what had brought him to Daranyi. A self-confessed free-lance spy, yes, but that was as much foolishness as fiction. It was something else altogether that excited him now. It was something that Daranyi had once said of himself, and something, their last time, that Lilly had said of Daranyi. He racked his brain, and cursed himself for not having been a better listener. Daranyi had worked, was working—which?—for a Nobel committee judge—to investigate all the present laureates. He had hardly paid attention to it at the time, but now, in review, it had a foul smell. Had he himself been spied upon? And Stratman? Had someone been interested in Stratman for any reason—perhaps for the reasons that had been erased on the tape? Far fetched, and yet—Daranyi was a possibility. Even if he knew nothing of this matter, he, more than anyone, would likely know what to do about it. Suddenly, for the first time, Craig took Daranyi seriously.
He heard the clock, and he realized, painfully, that time was running out. He had less than an hour and three-quarters to act on his own. But now, for the first time, he had need to define his mission: to act on his own, yes, laudable—but to act how? And to what end? What was he after? He must reach Emily and Walther, of course. That was the goal. He must ascertain that Emily was alive and safe. He must look upon Walther with his own eyes and know that this sudden visitor was, indeed, Emily’s father. If he was not her father, the cruel hoax needed to be exposed. If the tape was true, and Walther true—and Craig had little doubt about this—then Craig must reason and plead with Walther to withdraw from this drama and end the impossible dilemma.
Momentarily oblivious to his surroundings, Craig became aware that he had found the real motive for personal action. He reasoned the motive further; Walther, father, had come back into Emily’s life as Walther, stranger. The accident of blood did not necessarily establish the sire. Rather, closeness and love and responsibility and sacrifice made the sire. By this standard, Max Stratman, not Walther Stratman, was Emily’s male parent. If Max were snatched from her now, she would be condemned to life servitude with an utter stranger. Since she would not have Craig, and could not have Max, she would have no one but herself—and this self could not survive alone. For Emily, this emptiness would be the deeper death before dying.
Standing in the entry hall, thinking, Craig was vaguely dissatisfied and wanted to rationalize his action further. There was also, he told himself, the matter of the greater good: Walther was an unknown quantity, whereas the free world needed Max, dared not lose him. Ergo: reject Walther to save Max and Emily. Ergo: find Walther, and convince him that he should go back voluntarily to where he came from. If Walther truly loved Emily—more, if he was concerned with the future freedom of mankind—he would be persuaded.
But the pretentiousness and unfairness of this determination nagged at Craig. He tried to dismiss it, yet it was there, persistently begging a hearing. Reluctantly, Craig gave the defence its kangaroo hearing. Yes, in an ancient time, Walther had played Sydney Carton to his brother Max’s Charles Darnay. Yes, Walther had suffered a long slavery under a system he abhorred, and deserved parole at any cost. Yes, Walther should be freed to enjoy his last years. That was justice. Nevertheless, for once, Craig looked upon justice as the baser choice. His emotions clung to the original impulse, go back, Walther.
Craig’s quest was now clear. If he failed in it—failed to find Walther or, finding him, failed to convince him—there would be time enough to return to Max without imperilling Eckart’s deal. The consequences of failure were automatic. He would have to return to this room and tell Max Stratman the truth and let him do what would have to be done. Max Stratman would offer him
self to the exchange at once. He would offer himself because of brother love and Emily love and, most compelling of all, because of the old swollen guilt. He would do so, without second thought, if Craig returned helpless in an hour and three-quarters, and he would do so this moment, if Craig marched into his bedroom and woke him with Eckart’s news. But not yet. Craig’s passionate need for Emily, for her safety and her peace of mind and what he now knew was right for her, shook him. He was animated into action.
Pocketing the anonymous typewritten note, he hid the miniature tape recorder in the entry hall cupboard. Then, taking his pen, he added a thoughtful postscript to Max Stratman’s note left for his niece: ‘Have taken Emily out on the town. We’ll meet you at Concert Hall. Best, Craig.’ Now he lifted the receiver of the telephone and spoke to the operator. Did she have a number for one Nicholas Daranyi? He waited restlessly, and then the operator reported that there was no listing of any Daranyi in Stockholm.
Craig hung up, and promptly his mind went to Lilly. At this hour, she would be in the Nordiska Kompaniet. He would find her, and through her find Daranyi. It was the best that he could do, he told himself helplessly.
Swiftly, he strode out of the Stratman suite, hastened through the corridor, and rode the elevator down to the lobby.
The lobby was, as ever, crowded. Craig pushed through the circle of people trying to enter the elevator, jostled against the Marceaus, with no time to murmur a civil apology, and started towards the stairs leading to the revolving door and the outside.
As he reached the topmost step, he thought that he heard his name. He turned, and heard the stentorian voice again. ‘Craig.’
It was Gunnar Gottling, in his eccentric fur cap and mangy coat, his bloodshot eyes and drooping bushes of moustache, not this time hiding his outgoing affection, tramping towards Craig. ‘You old son of a bitch,’ he was bellowing, ‘I was just ringing your room. I wanted to tell you I reread all those crappy books of yours the last couple days and—’
(1961) The Prize Page 86
