A Fierce Radiance

by Lauren Belfer

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the bottom of the fourth inning, the crowd screamed its approval.

  “Mom, did you see that?” Charlie turned around to explain. “Billy got to second on an error at first.”

  Billy was Billy Herman, the hitter. Claire restrained herself from covering her ears to muffle the din.

  Friday evening, July 24, at Ebbets Field. The Brooklyn Dodgers versus the Pittsburgh Pirates. They had seats by the railing along the third-base line, which Claire had to admit was somewhat better than being in the bleachers. Charlie and his friend Ben, and her driver, Tony, and his younger brother, Joe, were sitting in the row in front of her. John Smith, of Pfizer, was sitting next to her.

  The Dodgers were having a great year, with a seven-game lead over the St. Louis Cardinals, or so Charlie had explained to her. Last year the Yankees had defeated the Dodgers in the World Series, but Charlie was confident the Dodgers would make the series again this year and defeat the Yankees.

  “Go—go!” The boys punched each other’s shoulders in enthusiasm as Mickey Owen drove in a run and reached second on another error. They stood, jumping and shouting as if they’d run the bases themselves. John Smith also stood to cheer.

  Claire did not stand. The heat, the noise, the reek of sauerkraut, the vertiginous angle of the Ebbets Field stands rising around them, exhausted her and gave her a touch of queasiness. She’d never understood the appeal of baseball. This game had started early because of the dim-out regulations, and the temperature was still in the high eighties. The humidity was a gel-like sheet pressed over her face. At the beginning of the game, Red Barber, the radio announcer, had urged them to donate blood for the troops. The mention of blood contributed to her queasiness. They were instructed to throw back foul balls, so the balls could be sent to the armed services teams. They stood for the wartime innovation of singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” At that point, Claire had been ready to go home, but she had at least two more hours ahead of her.

  Smith rearranged himself in his seat. “I like it out here,” he said when the crowd quieted. “I feel relaxed.” Dressed in a blue-and-white seersucker suit, tie tight against his neck, perspiration beading on his temples beneath his panama hat, Mr. Smith didn’t look relaxed, but Claire took his word for it. He was a large, strong man with gray hair and a granite face. “You feel relaxed, Mrs. Shipley?”

  “Yes, very relaxed.”

  “I’m glad.”

  The boys were lucky to be using his tickets; she wouldn’t offend him by complaining. This week when Claire and Tony had visited Pfizer headquarters, Smith had given them the usual song and dance about Pfizer’s lack of success and shown them the usual pristine laboratory. Just as Claire was about to walk down an apparently off-limits corridor, he offered to take her, her family, all her friends and the families of all her friends to a baseball game. He was part owner of the team, so this was no sacrifice for him. At first she’d refused. Then she caught the look on Tony’s face—Tony who might someday have his dream fulfilled and become a tank driver—and she thought of Charlie, who would escape the conflict only by the grace of God, and she accepted, provided she could pay for the tickets. Smith insisted he had the seats anyway, but she insisted on paying, and finally he capitulated and let her pay. She wasn’t about to start accepting bribes.

  So here they were, sweltering in the humidity of a New York summer’s evening, Tony’s uniform shirt glued to his back with perspiration. Charlie was on his third hot dog, Ben was finishing an astonishing fourth. Joe ignored his hot dog to give his full attention to the game.

  “That was inside,” Tony shouted.

  “Inside,” Ben repeated.

  “Okay, ball two.” Tony provided more details to the boys, and Claire gave up trying to follow. All evening he’d been explaining to them the nuances of each pitch and the special talents of each batter and the histories and statistics of every player back to what sounded like the beginning of time itself. As he spoke to the younger boys, the set of Tony’s shoulders was both relaxed and proud.

  “Wonderful to see the boys excited,” Smith said.

  “Yes.”

  “If you have time after the game, I’ll take them to the locker room to meet Leo.” Leo Durocher was the manager of the Dodgers. “No women allowed, though.” He chuckled. “That all right with you?”

  “Yes, of course. A wonderful opportunity for the boys.” She tried to sound excited on their behalf.

  “I hope they’ll have many opportunities to come out here as my guests. With you paying for their tickets, of course.”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Smith.”

  “Not at all. The least I can do.”

  The least you can do for what or whom? Claire wondered.

  “Yes, it’s nice to come out here to the stadium, isn’t it?” he mused.

  “Out here, everything is free and easy and we can really talk to each other. Not like the office. Too many open ears at the office, eh? That reminds me: I met your father recently.”

  Claire was taken aback. “You did?”

  “Sure. He’s involved with Hanover, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I saw him at a meeting. At the Harvard Club.”

  “He doesn’t discuss business details with me.”

  “That’s as it should be. I’m the same with my family.”

  But Claire wondered, How did John Smith know that Edward Rutherford was her father? Were all these pharmaceutical people watching her, just as she was assigned to watch them? She wouldn’t let herself become paranoid, but it was disconcerting.

  Smith turned puckish. “Forgive me for indulging in a little harmless espionage, Mrs. Shipley: is our setup at Pfizer pretty much the same as the other places you’ve visited?”

  “Pretty nearly identical, Mr. Smith. The part of the setup I’m seeing, I mean. New and never used.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. Always good to know that we’re keeping up with the Joneses.”

  “A grand ambition, Mr. Smith, to keep up with the Joneses.”

  “Absolutely. Tell me something, Mrs. Shipley, this penicillin photography just a job for you, or you have a dog in this fight, too?”

  She paused to consider her response. She decided to be honest with him, even though she suspected her honesty would disarm him. “My daughter died of septicemia.”

  Before them, the three boys and the young man in uniform cheered for another play. But Claire and Smith were suddenly in an intimate conversation.

  “She died years ago, though it seems, well, like yesterday. She was only three years old.”

  “Ah.” Smith seemed oddly affected by this, rubbing his knees, his eyes turning bloodshot, but he said nothing more. He turned away from her and watched the game. A hit straight down the center drove in two runs. When Claire moved her feet, she felt as if she were peeling her shoes off the concrete; the soles were sticky from the spilled beer and Coke flowing down from seats behind them.

  “Let me tell you some history,” Smith finally said. “We at Pfizer were working on penicillin long before Dr. Florey brought his sample over from Oxford. We worked with a group at Columbia University, College of Physicians and Surgeons. A team led by Dr. Dawson, a fine man. We made the stuff, they tested it. Problem was, by the time the penicillin traveled from our manufacturing plant in Brooklyn and to their testing laboratory in Washington Heights, it was useless. Didn’t work at all. I told the guys, to keep their spirits up, that the problem was the Williamsburg Bridge. The penicillin didn’t like the potholes on the bridge.”

  He glanced at her. She waited.

  “The truth is,” he continued, “only God knows what killed it. That’s penicillin for you. Completely unpredictable. But when the government decided to move ahead with it, we fell into line. Doing our duty. At Pfizer, we’re going from bedpans and milk bottles directly to deep-tank submerged fermentation. This is a secret, by the way, but it’s a secret that doesn’t matter, because nobody
else can do it. Sure they want to do it, they’re trying to do it, but they can’t. They don’t have the know-how. Only Pfizer has the know-how and the experienced, dedicated scientists, from years spent perfecting the deep-tank fermentation methods used to produce citric acid, one of our traditional specialties. We bought an old ice plant on Marcy Avenue, and we’re moving in huge fermentors, bigger than railroad cars, over a dozen of them, and we’re going forward. We’ve got one goal: to be the biggest producer of penicillin in the country. Okay, we’re not in production yet, but with the team we’ve got, it’s only a matter of time.”

  “I’d like to get some pictures of those fermentors.” She saw the shots in her mind: a row of giant vats in a rhythm of steel, gleaming in the lights she’d set up around them, workmen dwarfed as they walked among them. American industry triumphant. “I’m sure Dr. Bush would, too.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he would,” Smith said. “Mrs. Shipley, I’ve got men working twenty-four hours a day, catching sleep at the plant when they can. Have we had any success? Can’t say that we have. Contamination, that’s the problem, over and over. But we will have success, sooner rather than later. In the meantime, we don’t need some well-intentioned government flunky like you or James Stanton or Nicholas Catalano coming around and checking up on us. Nothing personal, mind you, and you’re always welcome to bring the boys to a baseball game. Anytime.” He gestured magnanimously, taking in the field, the terrific seats, the hot dogs. “This has nothing to do with you. It’s the principle. We’re serving our country and doing our duty, but we’re running a business, too. This isn’t a Communist state, at least not the last time I checked.”

  “Of course it’s not a Communist state,” she said, trying to make herself sound as if she were teasing him, “but I still don’t understand why I can’t take the pictures. I’ll make you look like a hero.”

  “I don’t need to be a hero. You can’t take the pictures because this is our business, not yours. Not Vannevar Bush’s. It’s our business. I’m looking ahead to when this war is over. To when penicillin is available to the general public. The government may control the patents, but there’ll still be a profit in selling the drug. Do I want George Merck looking at some photos in Life magazine and figuring out how I do my work? George Merck is a fine fellow and I wish him success, but I’m not going to hand him the results of my team’s hard labor.”

  He studied her. “Well, I do run on a bit, don’t I.” It wasn’t a question. “You’ll have to forgive me.” His demeanor conveyed that he wasn’t asking for forgiveness. “I still think about poor Lucretia Stanton. I met her once at a conference. Remarkable woman. I offered her a job, but she wouldn’t take it. Considered herself above the profit motive. Those people over at the Rockefeller Institute—they think they’re better than people trying to do business and make money. But who accomplishes more in the end, eh? We do. Let me give you some advice, Mrs. Shipley. You seem like a nice woman. A good mother. You’ve got a fine son. Your father’s a good man. You know and I know that penicillin isn’t the only substance we’re working on. Sure, we’re trying to save lives, but there’s a lot of money at stake here, too. Give up this assignment of yours. Not everybody in this business is as civilized as I am. ‘Nice guys finish last’—one of Leo’s favorite sayings, as you probably know. An apt motto for many circumstances.” He sighed wearily. “It’s not for me to tell anyone else how to run his business. But I can confidently speak for myself and my colleagues at Pfizer when I say: we’re the experts, let us get on with things. That would constitute your personal service to your country. And to yourself and your family.”

  He didn’t speak in anger. He simply communicated facts. Was he threatening her directly, or merely imparting a threat from others? Claire wasn’t certain. Yes, he frightened her, but she wouldn’t let him suspect it. She shot back, “This just a job for you, Mr. Smith, or you have a dog in this fight, too?”

  He surprised her by shuffling in his seat. He stared at home plate for a moment, before turning to her once more. “As a matter of fact, you and I have something in common: my daughter died of bacterial meningitis. Nothing the doctors could do to help her.” He stopped, unable to go on. Then, “She loved coming to the ball game. She loved the hot dogs, the ice cream, the peanuts. She was a pretty little thing. Smart as a whip. Penicillin would have saved her—or at least I like to think it would have. We’re still waiting for clinical trials on bacterial meningitis. But indulge me: I like to think she’d be alive today, sitting here with us. Talking to the boys. Flirting with Tony. If her doctors had penicillin. Or some other antibacterial. So I’m doing my damnedest to make sure that nobody else’s kid dies like that. Meningitis is a horrible death. Septicemia, too. Every death is a horrible death; I’m not running a contest. Mark my words, Mrs. Shipley: Pfizer is going to create an entire nation where kids don’t die of infectious diseases. You see, I am an idealist—but an idealist who knows that only money, and lots of it, money in the form of patents and profits, can turn my goal into reality. You understand?”

  Against all her expectations, his eyes were swollen and watery.

  “I do understand, Mr. Smith. Believe me, I do.”

  Pulling his panama hat down over his forehead, he turned and snapped his fingers at a concessionaire in the next aisle. He ordered a hot dog in a gruff voice. When he received it, covered with sauerkraut and mustard, half-wrapped in a napkin, he cradled it in the palms of his hands without eating it. He stared at the field, the sauerkraut congealing in the summer heat.

  The Dodgers won that night, 6–4, their fourth victory in a row.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Late for a staff meeting, Claire slipped into an elevator that was about to close. She didn’t notice the lobby porter warning her to hold back. Too late, she realized her mistake.

  “Mr. Luce, forgive me.”

  The rule was that no one, no matter how senior in the company hierarchy, was to break Mr. Luce’s morning concentration by riding in the elevator with him. Rumor was that he prayed for God’s guidance during his long ride up to the penthouse in the morning. Claire thought this might even be true. The elevator operator, a young blonde whose lush curves burst from her pert uniform, held the door open and waited for Claire to step out. Her nameplate read ROSEMARY.

  “Stay, Mrs. Shipley,” Luce ordered. “It’s all right, Hutton.” The lobby porter stepped back, shaking his head, as if signaling his disapproval of Luce’s violation of his own standards. Hutton motioned for Rosemary to close the door. Claire lowered her camera bags to the floor. Mr. Luce smelled strongly of cigarettes, the odor filling the Art Deco elevator cab. He was a big man, always taller than she expected from his rotund features. They headed up to the top floor. His floor. How stupid, this trepidation over an elevator ride. He had forced her to violate a sacrosanct rule.

  “I’m not supposed to be riding in the elevator with you, Mr. Luce. You like to ride in the elevator by yourself.”

  A slight smile formed at the corner of his lips. “Just this once. Not making a habit of it.”

  Whether this meant that he wasn’t going to be making a habit of it, or she wasn’t going to be making a habit of it, Claire didn’t ask.

  “You look distressed, Mrs. Shipley. Not about the elevator, I hope.”

  She wanted to tell him about her conversation with John Smith, in fact was planning to make an appointment with him today. She couldn’t continue with this secret project if it imperiled Charlie, however far-fetched that idea seemed. She was planning to tell Luce that she was stepping aside from this assignment. Somebody else could take it on. She wouldn’t tell him here on the elevator, however, with Rosemary undoubtedly alert to every word. Instead she grasped at humor to smooth her way. “I went to a baseball game.”

  “Why?”

  She laughed. “I was invited. By John Smith of Pfizer. The Dodgers. I paid for my ticket. I insisted upon that.”

  “Good. Baseball. All-American pastime. Have to give it credit. B
rings people together. I approve of Roosevelt letting the teams play through the war.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates your support.” In fact the president probably did appreciate Luce’s support on the baseball issue.

  “Smith owns the Dodgers, doesn’t he?” Luce asked.

  “Part owner.”

  “So he’s got the seats anyway. Might as well fill them with you, paying or not.”

  “Thank you,” she said, uncertain if this was a compliment.

  They reached his floor. “Step out,” he told her, and she did. He waited for the elevator door to close. As he stood beside her, she felt his power assailing her, like an aphrodisiac. They were alone. He said, “I heard through a long grapevine that the pharmaceutical companies have been keeping us out.”

  She appreciated the way he said “us,” pulling her in, giving her a sense of belonging and of his protection.

  “They do seem to have invested a lot of money building labs they don’t use, to conceal their research.”

  “If there weren’t a war on, I’d print your photos of unused labs and test tubes filled with water. Show the American people what these companies have been doing. They’re not entitled to treat Time, Incorporated with such disregard. The country doesn’t deserve that.” He always conflated the good of the country with the good of his company.

  “A warning has come my way. A strong suggestion to move along.”

  “From whom?”

  “Pfizer was the conduit, although John Smith seemed to say it had nothing to do with him. He was only expressing the views of less savory elements of the industry.”

  “Ah.” Luce thought this through. “I don’t like it, no matter what the exact intentions. It’s un-American.” He glanced aside for a moment, weighing the options. “Here’s my decision: go back to one of the companies. When they don’t expect you. At night. On a weekend. Get the real story. Don’t go to Merck. George Merck has gotten himself on committees running things for the war, I don’t need complaints from him. Go to Hanover. Old man Hanover’s never given a dime to China relief, serves him right.”