The End of Innocence

by Allegra Jordan

  For this poem he had decided to write about fate: cruel, coldhearted, absolutely rotten, callous fate. Three blind women in the stars chopping up people’s lives with their nasty scissors. The kaiser with his stupid war gulping down Belgium, scraping for France—demanding power in exchange for blood. Prussian mothers throwing their sons into harm’s way for some hysterical and ill-founded mission.

  What was it with his own government? The war wouldn’t create freedom to pursue the noblest instincts of anyone’s soul. What was this business of Germany above all? And what if they accomplished that? What good would it do for humanity?

  Free will, my Aunt Frieda’s big bottom, he thought, whipping out a piece of paper and beginning to write.

  It had been easy at first, as he wrote, his anger fueling his art. But as his mind relaxed, as he spent his anger, the ditty from the girl’s poem last night crept into his mind and replayed itself over and over.

  Fall comes in shades of red

  And leaves in shrouds of white

  He recalled her looking down at him, startled. He laughed as he thought back to her cheeks’ reddening when she had detected the slightest whiff of criticism. Her raven hair looked so severe against those flushed cheeks.

  Yet it set off to perfection the white skin of her throat.

  He found several minutes had passed by the time he got back to work again. Such insecurity for one so beautiful, was his final judgment, as he picked up his pen again.

  This time he was interrupted by a loud noise in the hallway. An irksome young man standing outside his door was spewing angry words about Germans.

  Ignore it, thought Wils, pushing his ink pen hard to the page. He was almost finished, and then he’d leave for the club.

  But the lunatic kept at it. He threatened to confront any German he saw. Wils stiffened in his chair and put down his pen. He heard the muffled voice of Mr. Burton, his hall master, trying to calm the young man down, arguing house rules, but the man kept at it.

  Wils could hear every caustic remark about his nation. Enough was enough. He was not a coward, and there came a time when one had to stand up to a bully.

  A loud crash shook his door, sending the brass knocker rumbling. Wils rushed to the living room fireplace and picked up the poker as Mr. Burton shouted and a door slammed. Wils ran to the hall but found it empty except for Mr. Burton, and at his feet the remains of a shattered chair on the wide floorboards. Burton’s balding head was covered in sweat.

  “Go back, Wils,” said Burton. “There’s nothing here.” Wils turned to see a large scar across his door.

  “The boy’s cousin was just killed in Belgium. Have a little mercy,” continued Burton, collecting the broken bits. “And put that poker back unless you want them to grab it and use it on you.”

  “I’m not going to be threatened.”

  In a heavy motion, Burton raised himself up. He stood shoulder height to Wils but was three times as thick. Perspiration dripped from his nose.

  “Don’t you be getting into this trouble, Wils,” Burton said in a low tone. “Some people are looking for a fight and they’d just as soon fight you as not. And don’t think you can take them. The police aren’t going to be helping you after what’s just happened to Arnold Archer. They protect their own over at City Hall.”

  “They didn’t protect Arnold from his crime,” Wils replied hotly. “That means the Archers have enemies at City Hall too. I’m talking with the police tomorrow.”

  Burton didn’t reply as he sat back down to write a report.

  Wils was livid. It was time to leave. He locked his scarred door and walked to Burton’s desk. “Burton. My door.”

  “I’m preparing the paperwork as we speak.”

  “Thank you, then, and good day.”

  “Where are you going, Wils?”

  “Dinner,” he said, pushing open the heavy entryway door.

  “I’d stay away from the Spee.”

  Stay away from the Spee? Hardly. He’d had enough of this nonsense. “Good evening, Burton,” Wils said, not answering his request.

  “Good evening, Wils.”

  Wils defiantly walked to the club’s mansion, becoming angrier with every step.

  Damn Max! Archer was looking for fire and Max had lit the fuse. Then again, maybe he was a gambler. Maybe he did have debts. He just didn’t know.

  Wils took a deep breath and caught the face of Ronald Chudley in the window looking down at him with a haughty glare. Wils looked away.

  To hell with them all, Wils thought, turning on his heel. Burton was right. Why would he even want to go to the club? He’d eat at the Harvard Union, where Morris Rabin, a classmate with the most sense of anyone he knew, would see that he was left in peace.

  * * *

  Since early August, as the war in Europe escalated, anti-German sentiment flared through Boston beyond all reason. It had become spectacle and sport. People didn’t want to entertain serious debate. German professors were being watched by their fellow townsfolk—their neighbors and friends. German books were being burned. The Spee Club, a place of privilege, was now a place of anonymous elbows in Wils’s back. Ink had been spilled on his books. A chair had been pulled out from under him. Since early August he’d been met with glares and quiet taunts at crew practice. Jackson Vaughn’s mother in Alabama had even warned her son not to fraternize with “the enemy.”

  It couldn’t last, Wils tried to tell himself. Everyone was saying that the conflict was so massive it couldn’t be sustained. Everyone would be ruined if this war didn’t stop—that there had to be some emergency brake. He hoped so. But he was unsure that would happen. The Germans learned after Napoleon to believe that power was the ultimate expression of being alive. That idea had no emergency brake.

  As Wils entered the Harvard Union, the pungent fumes of lye reminded him why he seldom dined there. Not only were the environs less than luxurious—wood chairs against scarred tables scattered around a cavernous room—but he knew no one. There would be no laughter nor friendship there. But there would also be no recrimination. That was a victory of sorts.

  He heaped a tray with lamb pie and roasted potatoes, then sat down, placing his notebook on one side of his tray to create a barrier to anyone of manners wishing to speak with him, and for a quarter hour was left in peace.

  “Brandl!” came a voice from across the room. Wils looked up to see Morris Rabin walking toward him with a paper tucked under his arm.

  Rabin was dark and short, from a rough neighborhood in New York. Despite working part-time in the Union kitchens to earn money for school, he’d outranked Wils in nearly every class they’d taken together.

  “Brandl? What are you doing here?” he said, moving Wils’s notebook and sitting down.

  “Avoiding patriots.”

  Rabin nodded. “I heard about Archer, may he hang higher than Haman. Did ya know about this?”

  “Copeland told me Wednesday. The police want to talk with me tomorrow.”

  Rabin leaned back. “Your watch. I heard they found it on Archer yesterday when they searched his room.”

  “Yes. I gave that watch to Max when his broke.”

  “I’m surprised Max didn’t pawn it. I mean, it doesn’t look good. Even if Arnold did go take the watch, these gambling debts—”

  “Don’t say it,” said Wils, his stomach tightening. For a man from a rough neighborhood, Rabin was always interested in upper-class intrigue. Perhaps that was the way of the world. A man is jilted, it’s his pain to deal with. But die and it’s everyone’s business.

  “Oh no,” said Morris. “I’m on your side in this. I liked Max. We were friends before he became such a sad case,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry he’s gone.”

  “How is Jackson taking the news?”

  A look of weariness crossed Morris’s face. “Not well. His nightmares
about Jenny have been getting worse. He kept me up all night last night and now with the news about Max—well, he had better pull it together. Enough of this love business, I say!”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Wils, raising his glass.

  They sat in silence for a moment. Morris had brought little of his usual cheer, and Wils wondered if he should risk the rest of his lamb pie getting cold to keep talking with him.

  “Wils, I did find something that I think will interest you,” Morris said, offering a newspaper. “I was going to show you tomorrow in class. It’s about the war.”

  “Save it,” said Wils glumly. “I’ll find out soon enough. My mother just recalled me.”

  “No, mate, I’m serious,” he said, his eyes intense. “You can’t go.” As Morris pulled out the London Times from the crook of his arm, Wils held up his hands in protest.

  “Morris, I’ve seen one too many nasty articles on how insecure we Germans are. You know, it’s not like America hasn’t been in its share of wars during the past century with its own natives, or the Mexicans and the Spanish. And America’s not been between an angry France and Russia before, has it?”

  “Are we on trial here? You have this wrong. The London papers say the Germans are winning.” Morris pointed to the middle column. “Mons and Cambrai: Losses of the British Army.”

  “What? Where’d you get this?” he asked, surprised to hear such news. “I’d heard about Namur, but—”

  “Exactly!” said Morris. “It’s bad for the British and French and frankly I hate the kaiser, so I’m not too happy about the news myself. We shouldn’t reward tyranny. But the kaiser’s plan is working. Your ma isn’t going to be sending for you after this. The Times would never print this news if it weren’t really bad for England.”

  Wils read down the column:

  The German commanders in the north advance their men as if they had an inexhaustible supply. Of the bravery of the men it is not necessary to speak. They advance in deep sections, so slightly extended as to be almost in close order, with little regard for cover, rushing forward as soon as their own artillery has opened fire behind them on our position. Our artillery mows long lanes down the centres of the sections, so that frequently there is nothing left of it but its outsides. But no sooner is this done than more men double up, rushing over the heaps of dead, and remake the section. Last week so great was their superiority in numbers that they could no more be stopped than the waves of the sea. Their shrapnel is markedly bad, though their gunners are excellent at finding the range. On the other hand their machine guns are of the most deadly efficacy, and are very numerous. Their rifle shooting is described as not first-class, but their numbers bring on the infantry till frequently they and the Allied troops meet finally in bayonet tussles. Superiority of numbers in men and guns, especially in machine guns; a most successfully organized system of scouting by aeroplanes and zeppelins; motors carrying machine guns, cavalry; and extreme mobility are the elements of their present success.

  To sum up, the first great German effort has succeeded. We have to face the fact that the British Expeditionary Force, which bore the great weight of the blow, has suffered terrible losses and requires immediate and immense reinforcement. The British Expeditionary Force has won indeed imperishable glory, but it needs men, men, and yet more men.

  Wils looked over at Morris, shocked at what he had read. “The Times is saying—”

  “Yes, Wils. It could be over. Just not as they—or I—wished.”

  Wils shook his head in disbelief. “Thank God,” he mumbled. “Mother wanted me to leave this week after I spoke to the police.”

  Morris clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, now you won’t have to go to war. Riley—he may be going. But not you. The war is almost over, it seems. Keep the paper, Wils. I’ve got to go back to work.”

  Wils thanked him and reread the story again, his heart beating faster as the reporter spoke of German victories. The tightness rolled back in his chest, and he thanked Morris silently for bringing such news. Morris was solid and for a moment, Wils felt badly for wanting to avoid him at first. He was always there to lend a hand in crisis. He certainly had bailed Jackson out when Jenny McGee had broken his heart. And as a working-class man, he’d listen to both sides, and then say something measured and moderate and be done with it. He wasn’t ideological. Morris Rabin represented what was good about America.

  Wils finished his food in a much better mood, picked up his paper and books, and walked back in the twilight to Beck Hall. He bade a stiff but cordial good evening to Burton and opened the now-scarred door to his apartment.

  Riley glared from the settee. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie undone.

  “Where have you been?” Riley demanded. He picked up a copy of the Crimson and waved it high. “You are completely irresponsible. I saw that door and thought you’d gone and done something dreadful. I can’t believe you left without a note.”

  “Is complaining still the national pastime of England?” asked Wils irritably, walking past the brick fireplace. He sat down in a leather chair opposite the settee. Beside him was a table with several telegrams in a jumbled pile.

  Riley shot back, “From the look of the telegrams, your German mother bests my complaining by far.”

  “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “Wils, I know how bad this must be for you. You are down in the pit of despair. I offer you a rope but you seem to want a lid.”

  Wils looked above the mantel at the large portrait of his mother and Riley’s mother, Aunt Frieda, with Aunt Gertrude as young girls. The three looked mildly amused at his predicament. He took off his glasses and put them down on the table but said nothing.

  Riley continued. “I know that Max is dead, and that people here are taking justice into their own hands in some cases. But what if the people who killed Max are coming after you?”

  Wils’s face went white. “What? We don’t know that. Archer’s gang may have intimidated Max, but we don’t know if they’re going to hurt anyone else. But people should know about potential vigilante justice in our midst. I rang the Crimson to investigate.”

  Riley blanched. “You rang the Crimson?”

  “Yes. Arnold may not be after me, but justice should be served. He is dangerous.”

  Riley rubbed his eyes. “Dear Lord! Don’t you know that Arnold’s father runs this city? Why didn’t you stay out of it, Wils? Max might still be alive if he’d stayed out of all of these politics.”

  “Es ist nicht möglich!” said Wils. He shook his head and took a deep breath. “It’s not Max’s fault he was murdered, no matter what he did. I don’t want to fight with you, Riley.”

  “He knew better and so do you. No more phone calls. No more going out by yourself without saying where you’re going. And your mother is so worried she is going to post a security guard tomorrow outside of our door. We’re not going to have our door broken down. Webster Potter’s cousin was killed in Belgium and Webster is big enough to break the door and us. I’m surprised he didn’t already.” Riley’s frustration seemed to grow with every order he gave. “Don’t you realize that by going to the paper you’ve made us both targets of Arnold’s new ‘Patriots’ League’?”

  “That league is a sham.”

  “For now. But things can change. One ship sunk, one country falls, and we will have a full-fledged witch hunt on our hands. And don’t tell me these people don’t know their business on that score. The Salem witches had it bad back in the 1600s.”

  “Riley, this will blow over in the next few weeks. Every year there’s some protest. If it’s not for labor, then it will be patriotism, and if not patriotism, then something else. Remember how angry they were about planting oaks in the Yard? That’s what they do around here. Protest and rallies are sport.”

  “Blood sport, it looks to me. And they’re after yours. We’re going to take some precautions about
your safety,” said Riley, getting up from his seat. “I’ve had enough of this. Have you eaten? I’ve not and I’m terrible about dealing with problems on an empty stomach.”

  “Yes.”

  Riley frowned. “And yet you still act like an idiot, even on a full stomach, leaving without notice as to where you are.”

  Wils watched as Riley left for the adjoining room’s pantry. He stretched his legs and rested his head against the back of the sofa. He noticed that Aunt Frieda had Riley’s smile in that portrait.

  “How long does foie gras last?” called Riley.

  “I don’t know. Smell it.”

  There was a pause. “Smells like it always does. Let’s give it a shot. Wils, would you like to come with me to a festival in Concord I’ve been invited to this weekend?”

  “By whom?”

  “Helen Brooks.”

  “The woman from the dance last night?”

  “Yes,” called Riley.

  “No, Riley, I don’t wish to go. And if you go, you’ll be playing with fire. Peter suspects something.”

  “He should,” said Riley. “I wish to court his sister. She’s a beauty.”

  “I’ll give you that, but she’ll make you take the brunt of her sharp tongue. And there is the problem that you’re engaged.”

  “I am not.”

  “Edith thinks you are,” Wils replied.

  “That is not my fault. I didn’t ask her to marry me.”

  “Then why did she say you were engaged?”

  Riley stepped out from the pantry and his face grew hard. “I hate to sound unchivalrous, but I never asked her to marry me and I’ve no intention of doing so. A man knows if he’s proposed.”

  “Peter heard differently,” said Wils.

  “Really, Wils,” said Riley indignantly. “Now I need your car for this weekend, and even more I would like you to drive so I can fix all my attention on Miss Brooks. I hear she’s smarter than you were when you entered Harvard.”