(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  It was during this, as he half listened, that the thought entered Craig’s mind: the pitiful old man is painting this pretty picture as a rationalization for taking part in the trade, as a necessity to shed the dreadful guilt of it.

  ‘If it is all as you describe,’ said Craig gently, ‘so wonderful for Max, tell me—why are you leaving at all?’

  This was impudent, but Walther appeared not to be sensitive to it. ‘For one thing, I am not Max,’ Walther said slowly. ‘He will be regarded as more useful, and treated accordingly. For another, I want to be with my daughter in a place where I can make riches and have the material things that Max has had. Surely, at my age, these desires are understandable.’

  ‘Certainly they are,’ said Craig. ‘Have you thought at all of what you will do in the United States?’

  Walther smiled winningly. ‘I have not had much time for planning, as you know. But sitting here, relaxing, before you came, waiting for the evening and my freedom, I began to consider what is ahead. I am sure Max will cede me his savings and home, in exchange for mine, so I will have a start.’ He rubbed his watery eyes. ‘Of course, I would not live in the city of Atlanta in your Georgia as Max does. I am more conscious of inequities than Max. I will not live among people who club Negroes and lynch and incite riots. I will take Emily to New York or Detroit. I will work for the capitalists so that Emily and I can be capitalists.’

  ‘What work do you intend to do?’ asked Craig.

  ‘I will work for peace—if the capitalists will let me.’

  ‘You will continue your bacterial experiments?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘But you’ve been doing just that in Leningrad.’

  Walther’s bleary eyes considered Craig as he might a precocious but errant student. ‘Young man, in Russia I did this work for peace—for nothing else—as a deterrent to war. That is one thing I trust. I must learn if, in America, there is the same good will.’

  ‘Perhaps you will resume your work in nuclear energy?’

  ‘A possibility, if I am assured it is for peace.’

  ‘You can depend that it is for peace.’

  Walther set down his empty glass. ‘You mean like Hiroshima and Nagasaki?’ Then, quickly, he smiled at the expression on Craig’s face. ‘No, do not take me seriously. Those annihilations were political moves, I understand that, to exert influence in the East before we could. No—do not misunderstand me—I know your American people are peaceful, want to live, to let live, to have good relations, like plain common people everywhere. I know they are the tools of reactionary monopolists. I have only meant I would not sell myself to the house of Morgan, to help provoke and incite a total war. You can be sure that Emily and I will work for the people.’

  During the last of that, a vagrant, teasing thought—which had entered Craig’s mind earlier and been turned away—now possessed him. It was something astonishing and unacceptable before. But these seconds, his perceptions vibrated and wondered, and the vagrant thought grew, taking shape and identity. Craig hated to face the fact of it, yet the thought excited him. It was a hypothesis only, true, and there was no absolute proof of it, but proof might be possible to obtain. Suddenly his resolve was to test it for proof. He must gamble before time ran out, and all was lost.

  ‘I am sure we can depend on you, sir,’ he said. His air was all guilelessness. He looked down at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I’ve overstayed. I’ve tired you—and I should be at the Nobel Ceremony.’

  ‘I am pleased you came,’ said Walther. ‘It was a good surprise, to find a friend.’

  Craig considered Walther. ‘Had you wondered, at all, why I came—why I forced Krantz to bring me here?’

  ‘To see Emily. To know she is well.’

  ‘One part of it. The main part is—I came to see you.’

  ‘I cannot imagine why.’

  ‘I had some notion that I might persuade you not to go through with this terrible exchange. I know what you’ve been through, what Max owes you, but somehow I thought I could make you realize that your role in Emily’s life ended long ago. Through adolescence and maturity, she has known only Max. In effect, he is her father and good to her. I thought I might make you see the trauma, for her, of replacing Max with yourself. Also, I thought you might be convinced of Max’s importance in the free world—I do not denigrate your own—but Max is proved, looked up to, on the brink of greater work, for all the people, for our government, not private enterprise—and I thought—’

  Walther’s cheeks were ablaze. ‘You are an impertinent young man,’ he interrupted. He tried to control his voice, but it quaked with anger. All in his face that had seemed loose and flabby with age and drink now seemed to stretch and harden. ‘You are a meddling young man, and you have no feeling—’

  Craig did not recoil, but sat immovable in his place. ‘I apologize then,’ he said. ‘I had no wish to offend you or—’

  Walther’s flat palm slapped the table like a plank of wood, and the bottle jumped. ‘What does any pampered young ignoramus like you know of life over there and what we go through? What do you know of discipline and sacrifice and suffering—you, all of you, with your belly softness and head softness—dancing puppets for the propertied class, educated by schools that will only cater to the wealthy, and learning all you know from newspapers and periodicals controlled by the rich? What do you know—and who are you to tell me what is right and what is wrong—to tell me to sacrifice more and more for a brother who has grown fat and fat-headed, usurping my place with my own flesh and blood?’

  Krantz had rushed forward. ‘Please, Walther—please, please—Mr. Craig did not mean—’

  Craig pushed back the chair and came to his feet. ‘No, Krantz, he is quite right. I should not try to live other people’s lives and make their decisions. It is a disagreeable trait of authors. But I will make up for it now.’ He stared down at the angry Walther. ‘Yes, I will make up for it. There is no reason for you to go back—but there is no reason for Max to submit and go behind the Curtain either. I don’t intend to let Eckart pull off his filthy blackmail. There’ll be no exchange tonight. You’ll have your freedom, Walther, and Max will keep his. We’re all leaving this boat right now.’

  Krantz darted to the table. ‘It is impossible, Mr. Craig—why—’

  ‘Shut up Krantz!’ It was Walther. He addressed Craig with cool contempt. ‘I was mistaken. You are not merely a fool but a suicidal fool.’

  Craig contained himself. ‘It’s possible if one wants freedom enough as some Hungarians and some East Germans did,’ he said evenly.

  ‘There are no odds to favour us,’ said Walther. ‘There are two guards out there, fully armed, young hoodlums who would enjoy the target practice. There are four of us—two of us old, and one a woman—with no arms but your nonsense.’

  ‘I’ll take the major risk,’ persisted Craig. ‘I’ll lead the way out. It’s dark. I’ll go towards the guards, block them, divert them, no matter what the consequences. There’ll be time enough for the three of you to make the wharf—or, better, just leap overboard and begin to shout. The noise you make—the gunfire at me—it’ll bring, people down in swarms.’

  ‘I am not going overboard,’ said Walther with deadly reserve. ‘I do not swim.’

  ‘You’ll find cork jackets in the cupboard.’

  ‘And float there—sitting duck for those hoodlums? No. Why risk my life, after all I have been through, when my freedom without danger is only hours off?’

  ‘But then we can save Max—not only you but Max.’

  ‘You are telling me how to think about Max?’ Walther bawled, rearing to his feet, lurching against the table. The jolt of his agitated frame against the table overturned the glass and bottle, and sent both rolling to the cabin floor. As the vodka gurgled out of the bottle, Walther shouted, ‘Max is my business, not yours—not any of yours! I have had enough from you and all of your provocateurs! Now get out of here!’

  Craig remained stolidly in his place. ‘I�
��m not getting out.’

  Walther strode noisily around the table. ‘Then I will have you thrown out, you capitalist scum—trying to tell me what to do—trying to tell me—a man honoured, revered, looked up to, worshipped—in the most powerful nation on earth—’

  Suddenly, Walther cut his heated outburst short. His eyes went from Craig, to Krantz, and back to Craig, to the look of blank astonishment on Krantz’s features, to the look of complete scorn on Craig’s face. Except for their heavy breathing, the ticking of a clock, the creak of hinges off somewhere, the stateroom was a tomb of charged silence.

  Craig spoke first. ‘You don’t want to escape, do you, Walther? I never expected you would. But—why not? Because you don’t give a damn about your brother or daughter? Or because you don’t give a damn about freedom? You don’t want freedom—do you, Walther?’

  Rage covered Walther’s face like a distorted hood. He reeled towards Craig, lifting a fist as if to hit him. But he did not strike. Instead, he bellowed, ‘Freedom? Freedom? What do you sheep know of freedom—of the true meaning of freedom? You with your holy false words—mouthings dictated by your capitalist hyenas—the provocateurs, the warmongers, and you no better, and Max no better—waiting with your ICBMs to destroy us, to protect your filthy green dollars.’

  They were only a few feet apart, but Craig did not flinch. Exultation swept upward through his veins. Reckless confidence, in knowledge of the truth, was his banner. ‘You speak like a Communist, Walther, exactly like a Communist. You’re not even being cautious. You’re one of them—not the decent people there—but the big ones, the cocky ones, so sure of your science and weapons—’

  ‘You ignorant lout!’ cried Walther. ‘What do you know of our science and our weapons? We are the fighters for peace—working day and night to save the world, keep it alive for you fools, to make one world—’

  ‘Your world, Walther, not mine,’ interrupted Craig. ‘You want your world on your terms, and it has nothing to do with average people anywhere. You want your world. You’ve been brainwashed—indoctrinated—forgotten the old past—want the new future where you and your adopted comrades will be the royalty.’

  ‘The workers will be the royalty!’ Walther shouted.

  Craig studied the weaving old man, his pose lost, his stature taller, stronger, fanatical, and then Craig said, ‘You never intended to leave that world, Walther. I can see that now. You played along for the sake of the Party—it’s the Party, isn’t it, Walther? It’s the parroting, brainless, robot Party.’

  ‘Another disrespect against the Party and you’ll pay for it!’ Walther swayed, unbalanced by vodka and outrage. ‘The Party is the best of us—all eight million of the CPSU—and we are the cream, the best, the most decent brains on earth, and your fate is in our hands—remember that, remember—’

  ‘And so you played along for them, never intending to participate honourably even in blackmail? The bosses said go to Stockholm, suck in Max, get him back to East Berlin for us—so we can use him for evil—and then you come back to us, too. That was the game, wasn’t it?’

  Walther’s mouth was strange, twisting, twisting, saliva-brimmed, with no word being uttered, until at last the hoarse words broke through. ‘Do you think I would come to you in a hundred years? I wanted to help them get Max on the right side, yes. And the girl—Emily—yes, if she would come. I owed it to her—after what I know of Ravensbruck, after what I guess of her life in America—to raise her under my roof, in a decent house, with my family. But to leave my family for the likes of Max or the lot of you? To leave a good Russian wife—my two young children? They are my life, they and my work and our cause.’

  He caught his breath, panting out of fever and fury.

  ‘Dr. Krantz!’ The voice, clear and assured, came from the rear of the stateroom, and it was Emily’s voice.

  All of them turned as one, startled, having forgotten her. She stood before the open door of the bedroom cabin, had apparently been standing there for some minutes. Now, shifting her coat from one arm to the other, head high, lips compressed, only her step uneven, she crossed to the group.

  ‘Dr. Krantz,’ she repeated, ‘should you speak to Dr. Eckart once more, tell him this. Tell him there can be no trade—because there is no one for whom Uncle Max can be traded.’

  She considered Craig gravely, her countenance dry-eyed and composed. ‘Thank you, Andrew,’ she said.

  Kranz was waiting at the stateroom door. He went first. Emily was the next to go. Then it was Craig who left.

  Not one of them looked back at Professor Walther Stratman. . . .

  When they had arrived at his single room on the fifth floor of the Grand Hotel, Craig helped Emily inside, switching on the lights as they entered. Emily was heavy against his supporting arm, and twice she stumbled. ‘I’m all right,’ she muttered, ‘I’ll be all right.’

  They had emerged from the cabin cruiser at Pålsundet only fifteen minutes before, and the memory of it still hung over them. No sooner had Krantz led them up to the white pine deck than the athletic young Swedish guard had appeared, suspicious and edgy. Krantz had sternly rattled forth his explanation in Swedish, mentioning Walther once, invoking Eckart twice, and then the guard had conceded their passage.

  Swiftly, they had made their way along the canal, waiting once when Emily had protested that she was weak. During that interlude, Craig had felt the cool white flakes of snow on his cheeks, as satisfying as Emily’s warm presence leaning against him. Lingering thus, Craig had studied the dark waters of the canal and Långholmen island directly across, almost hidden behind the haze of the low mist, and then the snow came thicker. Where earlier it had seemed menacing, it now seemed a suspension in time, both cheerful and welcome.

  After that, they had departed from the desolate embankment, and gone up through the hard, slippery park area, Krantz wheezing, and Craig concerned only for the one on his arm.

  When they had come into the lights of Söder Mälarstrand, the traffic was still heavy in the packed snow, and the bright municipal decorations a proper jubilee. At the limousine, speckled with dry snow, Craig had asked Krantz to drive them to the hotel, and he had eagerly assented.

  Inside the cosy automobile, as it slid into the traffic, Emily had sat straight and rigid a moment, staring ahead, then suddenly she had closed her eyes and choked forth a sob.

  Craig had watched her with deep concern, aware of how depleted were her emotional resources. ‘I’m sorry, Emily. It must be shattering.’

  ‘No,’ she had said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘I—I almost cried because—only because I’m so relieved, at last. All afternoon, I did not know where I was, how to think, what should be done. Now it’s solved. He—he’s not my father at all—at least—not the father I knew. And the thought of having to give up Uncle Max for him or anyone—’ She paused. ‘But thank God for you, Andrew, thank God for you.’

  She fumbled for his hand, and he met her hand with his own, and brought her close against him. She dropped her head on his shoulder, eyes wearily closing, and sighed like a little girl who had been lost and was now safely in her sheltering bed again.

  ‘Andrew—’ she had murmured, and the receding voice was shaded and troubled.

  He waited, and he said, ‘Don’t bother to talk. I’m here. I’ll always be here.’

  ‘No,’ she had said, ‘no, Andrew—’

  He had tried to understand this refusal to accept him, and had been about to contend with it, when he saw that she slept. He had sat all through the ride, arm about her rocking with the motion of the limousine, wondering and wondering, until the time when they had drawn up before the canopy of the Grand Hotel.

  ‘Here we are,’ he had whispered, disengaging himself, and rousing her. The doorman had opened the rear door, but it had been Krantz, skittering around from the driver’s seat, who had shoved the doorman aside to assist Emily and Craig out of the car.

  Going past the worried Krantz, Craig had remembered that he represented
unfinished business. A decision must be made. Requesting Emily to wait, and the doorman to look after her, Craig had returned to Krantz. Wordlessly, they had walked several yards from the car.

  Krantz, distractedly brushing the snowflakes from his face, had gazed up at Craig. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Studying the servile physicist, Craig had known that there was only one thing he could do. From the beginning, when Daranyi had indicted the physicist, Craig had looked upon Krantz as Rumpelstilzchen, the evil dwarf, but now, hunched and drooping, he was only the pathetic dwarf. Craig could see how one so small had, in some way, to become big, and any witchery was worth it if the goal was reached. Craig could see that Nature had punished him from birth, punished him with lack of stature and discontent, and that more than this need not be done.

  Craig had studied the pale little Swede. ‘I keep thinking of Jacobsson—Ingrid Påhl—the hundreds of others—decent people—who work hard to make the Nobel awards mean something—in a world where so little means anything—and I tell myself all that would be lost with one rotten scandal. Because you fear the scandal as much as I hate it, you’ve tried to make up for it. You took me to the boat. You took us off the boat. So—as long as I can know you’ll never get caught up in anything like this again—’

  ‘Never—never. My pledge—’

  ‘—and as long as I know you’ll square things with Daranyi—’

  ‘At once—tomorrow.’

  ‘—I’m not going to say a thing, Krantz, only make a record of it, in case you should ever get out of line.’

  Krantz had been almost tearful. ‘Thank you—thank you.’