Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Washington Young, printer and publisher

  Volume 2, no. 3

  MORE BAD NEWS from the States: the Committee continues to wreak its havoc, pursuing their policy of forcing those who disagree with their political positions to lose their jobs, their positions in their communities, and any chance of following their established professions in the United States of America, all in the name of freedom. The press has supported their hysteria, increasing the air of crisis that continues to grow, joining the repressive elements in the government in continuing to denounce citizens of Communistic inclinations, without any proof of wrongdoing beyond rumor and innuendo. Westbrook Pegler still has the greatest hue and cry in print, but others are taking up the hue and cry. That opportunist Hoover and his agents have extended their assault on our Constitutional rights, claiming that to protect the country, certain measures are necessary in the face of the subtle and dangerous enemy—Communism. He has pledged to be rid of Communists, root, trunk, and branch. Lowell Thomas is preparing a television show on “run-away” Lefties, planning to show us as cowardly and treasonous, claiming that America is better off without any one of us. Be warned that he will try to persuade your families and friends back home to denounce you. Some of you may wish to write to your closest friends and family members, but keep in mind that the letters are likely to be opened by the FBI or other federal agencies. If possible, leave the names of other Coven members out of anything you send or say in telephone conversations to anyone in the States.

  DEAN ACHESON DOES not seem to be as determined to pursue those of us who have sought refuge in Europe as George Marshall was, or it may be President Truman is responsible for the change; he has decided to focus on the Soviet Union rather than Western Europe as the biggest threat, and has been disinclined to pursue those like us unless there is extensive proof of true espionage. It appears that the President is actually concerned about the number of academics who have left the United States for other places in the world, and would like some of us to come back. We will have to keep an eye on his progress. Since President Truman has indicated that he plans to put more emphasis on science and education for the “underprivileged,” he could rein in Hoover and the HUAC without too much effort. Perhaps the North Atlantic Treaty Organization will make it more difficult to persist in the process of Red-baiting and paranoia we have encountered in the last two years. This reporter suspects it all hinges on the newly-divided Germany. Who knows—if the Geneva Convention is ratified, some clever jurist could decide that its protections for necessary foodstuffs, clothing, and other basics can apply to displaced persons and ex-pats as well as soldiers during wartime, and restore our pensions.

  COLONEL TBT HAS sent word to our group’s attorney that there may be some problems renewing passports, and providing an acceptable proof of vaccinations over the next couple years. Most of us have no plans to return to the States any time soon, but the passport is essential for any foreign travel, so if any of us need to do that, the Colonel recommends doing it now, before the new rules are put in place. By the first of the year, some American Embassies will not be able to provide renewals without a security check, which most of us cannot assume we would pass. The Colonel believes that this may be a ploy to disenfranchise many of us while we seek redress of wrongs.

  THE ATTEMPT TO restore to the Central Intelligence Agency its original name, the Central Intelligence Group, has been soundly defeated in committee, much to the dismay of the CIA, where the move is seen to be spearheaded by Hoover’s supporters. The CIA has complained that CIA and FBI sound like two divisions of the same agency, which is precisely what Hoover is hoping it will do, which will lead the public to accept a blending of the two, under Hoover’s command.

  WE ARE EXPECTING news from HAW in Boston regarding the policy on foreign lecturers at Boston College; the Catholic Church is opposed to allowing anyone from a Communist country to address the student body on any topic, political or not, claiming that such an appearance would appear to be an endorsement of Communism itself. Of course, anyone seeking to appear at a US university would have to have some guarantee of safety from the CIA and the FBI, which may render the situation moot. In regard to the policy of the Catholic Church, some among the faculties of such institutions have expressed opposition to this proposed policy, but the College’s administration is inclined to go along with the Church, which should not surprise any of us. A final decision in this matter is expected by year’s end, as the witch-hunt goes on.

  OUR NEWLY ARRIVED Coven member from the great city of New Orleans informed this reporter that she may have found a publisher in Copenhagen who could be willing to publish works that we have had canceled or turned down out of hand in the States; if this proves to be the case, it could provide a chance for a better living for some of us, as well as a way to keep our work alive while we wait for better times. She is planning to make an appointment with him while she is in Copenhagen next month, and will telephone if she has encouraging news for us. This reporter is hopeful that she may have a positive response for a number of us. If anything is to come of this opportunity, we must be prepared to make the most of it. Thus far, we have had no doors opening to us but those in Eastern Europe, which, given the spirit of the times, would only serve to confirm the belief back home that we are dangerous radicals supporting the Communist agenda. Much as a few of our members have placed completed works with Oxford and Cambridge Presses, it would be folly to expect the English university presses to take on all our manuscripts: England has become careful about the Reds since the end of the war, and may one day try to cut back on such ventures as we have produced. CT may provide us all a second market.

  OUR FRIEND WHO moved to Barcelona has written to offer his new home, a Gaudi house no less, as a place to meet after the first of the coming year. He has said he will be happy to provide bedrooms and meals for up to a week. His home has extensive grounds, all paid for by the shipping company that now employs him. His one caution is that he is fairly certain that his bosses are engaging in some kind of illegal activities, and he does not know what they are, nor does he want to find out. For any of our group who would consider that troubling, he would recommend arranging another place to meet, on the French side of the mountains: safer, but without the Gaudi house. For those of you wishing to contact Barcelona, give your letters to this editor, and he will pass on all letters that may contain questions about this proposition.

  OUR MEMBER FROM Helena has departed on her self-appointed mission. She is presently in Switzerland, hoping to find a place where she can teach astronomy without any interference from the government, no matter what government it may be. She plans to give her venture about six months of travel. If she finds a place to work, she will have her belongings in storage here sent on to her new location, and she will put her house in Helena up for sale.

  IF ANY COVEN members know of a job that our only member from Nebraska might fill until he leaves for Australia in April, please contact him directly. The bookstore where he has been working has been visited by someone from the US Department of State, encouraging the bookstore owner to dismiss our Nebraskan as being bad for business. That would leave him without earnings for half a year. His last day at the bookstore will be the end of next month. Trick or treat.

  IN NOVEMBER THE Coven will meet on the usual holiday at the usual place at five-thirty in the afternoon for a meeting, dinner to follow for those who wish to remain: send your acceptance or regrets to this publication, no later than five days before the holiday. If we have no response from you, we will assume you will not be attending our celebration. Prices for the meal will be sent to those of you who plan to attend, though we may have to settle for duck instead of turkey.

  WE ARE SADDENED to learn that Thelma Jefferson Gregg, Professor of Physics at UCLA, has resigned her post and retired to Albuquerque, New Mexico, citing poor health for her decision to leave teaching. Her husband, Henry Gregg, will be teaching statistics at the university there.

  A publication for and by t
he victims of witch-hunts

  1

  IT WAS one of those probably nothing noises, a sound that was part scrape, part yowl, a bit sneaky, and it brought Charis Treat abruptly awake, her pulse racing, words whispering out of her at machine-gun speed. “It was a tree branch, or an angry cat, or something at the docks, or—” Or anything but the CIA bugging her Copenhagen hotel room. She sat up in bed, holding the pillow in front of her like a shield. Striving to separate herself from the fear that made her hands shake, she used her most reasonable lecture voice: “You’re in…” It took her a couple of seconds to remember. “You’re in Denmark, not Louisiana. You don’t have to worry about the Committee, not here.” Her voice was louder now, and she was breathing more normally. She forced herself to yawn, not very successfully, then she got up and went to the cramped bathroom, where she took a second phenobarbital and an aspirin, used the toilet, and went back to bed. Her alarm clock on the night-stand told her it was four-thirty-seven. “Damn,” she muttered. She would need to get back to sleep quickly if she were going to have sufficient rest when her breakfast tray arrived at six-forty-five. If only she did not have to be off for her interview by seven-thirty. She sighed and got slowly back into bed, ordering herself not to stare at the ceiling, trying to imagine what Harold and the kids were doing; that was something she would find out later. It would be a mistake, she thought, to go to her interview overcome by melancholy. “Be sensible. They’re fast asleep,” she told herself aloud. “Just as you should be, Charis.” She often lectured herself sternly in the waning hours of the night, had done so since she was in grammar school. Now she leaned back and rested her head on the goose-down pillow, willing herself to sleep.

  After nearly an hour of watching the shadow-pattern of the birches’ falling leaves in the hotel garden dancing and sliding on the wall, she sighed, reached out, and turned on the bedside lamp; its yellow glow created a cone of light that allowed her to resume reading Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country. She managed to get through another twenty pages before the first signs of the advancing dawn suffused the room with thin, limpid light. Marking her page with a brass paper clip, she set the book down, turned off the light, and did her best to get at least enough of a doze to restore her to the semblance of alertness.

  “Breakfast, Madame,” said the waiter in acceptable English as he rapped twice on her door.

  “Coming. Thank you,” she said, dragging on her bathrobe as she got out of bed and into the chilly morning; she made her way to the door. “Put it on the table,” she said, thinking it was absurd to tell the young man that, since there was no other surface in the room that would reasonably accommodate the tray.

  The waiter offered her a neat little bow and set the tray down, and handed Charis the bill on a kind of clip-board.

  Charis went to pull her purse out from under the pillow, opened up her wallet, and removed four coins—the same amount she had paid every breakfast for the last four mornings—and went to close and lock her door as he left. “Eggs, toast, herring, tea,” she said as she lifted the lids on three plates, stacking them together on the remaining wedge of empty tabletop. The first day she had asked for orange juice as well, but was amazed at the cost, and had dropped it from her subsequent breakfasts. The eggs were soft-poached, just the way she liked them, and there was a little ramekin of fresh butter next to the two slices of toast. The herring was broiled. Not what she would have back home, but not too foreign, either. She fit the strainer on top of her cup and poured out the dark, leafy tea through the fine wire mesh, concentrating on not overfilling her cup, as she had done yesterday. There was so much to get used to! “Book your call for six this evening,” she reminded herself aloud as she pulled up the overstuffed chair from next to the bed and began to eat, keeping an eye on the clock.

  The noise that wakened her returned, and this time she realized it was the squeak of brakes on the delivery van that had just unloaded the day’s produce at the hotel’s kitchen door. She made herself chuckle at her fears, saying, “Next you’ll be jumping at phone calls.”

  When she was finished with her meal, she went into the bathroom to wash and put herself in order. At thirty-six, she was still passably attractive, especially for an academic, she thought wryly, but she knew enough to be careful with her make-up and hair-style, to put the emphasis on her best features, which were her large, smoky-blue eyes and her teak-colored hair. She wished she had a shower, but made the most of a quick turn in the tub. The towel she had been provided was a pale blue, a bit threadbare, and scratchy. She rubbed herself down quickly and then took a minute to stare at herself in the mirror. She patted the dark smudges under her eyes and decided to use her Elizabeth Arden foundation—it gave the best coverage. She took a moment to pluck a few stray hairs from her dark, angled brows, and sighed. “I’ll have to rely on charm, I guess. Looks aren’t going to do it today.” She applied her make-up with care, hoping to conceal the anxiety that had taken hold of her; it would be foolish to reveal how desperate her situation was becoming.

  She left her room a few minutes ahead of schedule, her fawn-colored wool jacket long and princess-cut over an ecru blouse an understated version of Dior’s New Look. Her skirt was not quite the right length for sticklers, but its deep Prussian blue matched her gloves, her shoes, and her hat. Her purse was a simple dark-blue clutch—shoulder bags had vanished from American stores when Hoover had declared that Communist sympathizers carried them—and her briefcase was a darker version of her jacket. All in all, she was pleased with the impression she could make.

  The expression on the face of the clerk at the front desk confirmed her good opinion; he took her order for an eighteen-hundred-hours call to America, saying, “Will you take it in your room or in the telephone lounge?”

  “I think my room would be better, thank you,” she said, wondering if she should tip him.

  He recognized her predicament. “Gratuities are offered when the service is complete.”

  She could feel her face grow warm. “Thank you,” she said again, and added, “Your English is very good.”

  The clerk smiled. “My parents sent my brothers and me to our aunt in Canada during the war years.”

  “Probably sensible,” she said, missing her own sons, and turned toward the entrance. Stepping out of the hotel, she asked the doorman to hail a cab and gave the driver the address she had memorized the night before. “I understand we should need about twenty minutes to thirty minutes, perhaps a little longer. The roads won’t be crowded yet. In half an hour, they will be.” He swooped into the street and lit a cigarette. “I will have you there shortly after zero-eight-hundred. I know a shortcut.” He grinned around the cigarette and signaled to turn left, making a rude gesture with his hand.

  The morning was nippy—not quite cold, but chilly enough to make her think she had been wrong not to wear a coat. She settled back in the cab and watched the traffic around her, but gradually anticipation of the morning’s meeting claimed her thoughts: she tried to decide what she would say to this Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain; how should she address him? In what language? Did he speak English? French? She knew a little Italian, but not enough to discuss her book in it. She suspected he was Hungarian: the sz looked Hungarian, but it might be Polish or Czech. Probably not Russian: Russians weren’t supposed to use titles like Grof any longer, unless he was one of the Old Regime, whose family fled before the Revolution. Certainly not Bulgarian or Croatian or Serbian or Montenegron, and probably not any other Jugoslavian ethnic group; for a while she mentally ran through the list of nationalities that Grof Szent-Germain might be but probably wasn’t. She resisted the urge to bite the end of her little fingernail, telling herself it would smear her lipstick. The cab took an energetic turn to the left, and she grabbed the loop hanging down between the front and rear seats.

  “Sorry; there was an obstacle in the road,” said the driver, who was on his third cigarette.

  “So I gather,” said Charis, adjusting her hat and sitting b
ack once more.

  The driver double-clutched down into second gear and climbed up a small rise; the street was very narrow, with ancient cobbles and the narrowest of walkways along the edge of the stones. The buildings here were old—most a couple of centuries at least—Charis realized, and wondered why a publishing house should be in this older part of the city. She was more startled when the driver turned into an even smaller side-street, barely wide enough for the cab to negotiate, and drew up in front of an elegant four-story building that looked to be about three hundred years old. “Number 32, Madame,” said the driver as he flipped up his trip-flag, and told her the price. “It’s zero-eight-hundred-twelve.”

  She worked out the fare in American dollars: one-twenty-eight, more or less, yet another reminder of how the war had driven up the price of fuel and of operating a car. She handed over the appropriate coins, which still seemed dreadfully unfamiliar to her. “Thank you,” she said, letting herself out with care onto the narrow strip of brick sidewalk, her purse in one hand, her briefcase in the other; the cab was put into reverse and backed away from Charis’ destination.

  It was in beautiful repair, she thought as she climbed up to the front door, pausing to look at the various ornaments above the windows: most of it was scroll-work in a subdued Baroque style. Reaching the broad top step, she saw the modest bronze plaque above the knocker:

  ECLIPSE PUBLISHERS

  AND

  TRANSLATION SERVICES

  and above that was another one, saying, she assumed, the same thing in Danish.

  Charis hesitated, her confidence faltering, then remembered that Harold had not sent her the full hundred and fifty dollars he had promised her; she grabbed the knocker and swung it down on its strike plate twice and waited for someone to answer.

  Roughly a minute later, a man who looked to be about fifty, with sandy hair touched with white and eyes the color of old, much-washed blue jeans, opened the door. He nodded to Charis. “Professor Treat?” he asked in English; his accent was almost flawless.