by Sol Stein
She could see what a spellbinder he might be with these young California nitwits.
“Would your husband have been as successful in business as he’s been if he weren’t Jewish? You see, there is only one answer. Further migration. The Jews, when pressed, have usually resorted to bargaining, at which they are very good. But eventually, the Jewish response to pressure of the kind we are arranging here—once it is known—is to get out, to emigrate, to take their secular deviltry somewhere else. And as a Gentile, if you had not made that one mistake, you would have to agree with everything I have said because it is clear, logical, and supported by history.”
He stood up and walked over to Margaret. She was a bright woman. He would have liked to try his genetic theory out on her. She’d understand the implications of what van den Haag found. But not in front of the men.
“Where did your husband plan to hide?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Clifford slapped her face hard. “He must have told you.”
Through her anger, she saw Clifford’s red-veined face. That slap cost him more than me. They’re all looking at him. All that pompous speechifying and then he slaps me.
“George, take over!” Mr. Clifford said.
George Whittaker was a very tall man who liked to take advantage of his height by standing whenever possible. He stood to say, “Dr. Brown, you are an intelligent woman. You may not agree with everything we say at this moment, but surely you must know that there are hundreds of influential people in American politics who can’t wait for a movement such as ours to succeed. This country has been troubled enough by their having to kowtow to the Jewish vote. Ask any congressman if he isn’t sick to death at times of the Jew lobbies?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Margaret said.
“Ask the Arabs!” Whittaker raised his voice. “They can’t get a word in edgewise in this country!”
Dan Pitz thought it was time for him to make his move if he was going to impress Mr. Clifford. “Excuse me,” he said. “Could I pursue a somewhat different line of thought?”
“Of course,” Mr. Clifford said. God, that Whittaker was short-tempered for a man who’s supposed to be an executive.
“Dr. Brown,” Dan Pitz said, “why did you marry your husband?”
It will be easier for me if I speak, Margaret thought.
“Because I loved him.”
“That’s a very conventional answer, Dr. Brown. A cliché. Weren’t you at all troubled by the fact that he was Jewish?”
“He was troubled. I wasn’t.”
“He was?”
“He didn’t want to see me involved in any danger.”
Dan looked over at Mr. Clifford, who seemed intensely interested. Good.
“Do you find that people who expect trouble generally deserve trouble?”
“No. There are a lot of innocent victims in the world.”
“Do you think that your husband’s employees think of him as an innocent victim?”
“My husband’s employees are very loyal to him.”
“Of course. That’s how they keep their jobs!” He wasn’t getting anywhere. He had to go for broke. “Dr. Brown, I’m glad you’re a doctor because you’ll be able to decide the following matter with a lot more knowledge than a layman would have. If a woman… Are you paying attention, Dr. Brown?”
“Yes, I am.”
“If a woman had a gasoline-drenched tampon placed in her vagina and the tampon was ignited, do you think she could love her husband or anyone else ever again? Is that what you want?”
Dan caught the startled reaction of the others—Robinson, Trask, and Clete. His soft approach had caused them, too, to be taken by surprise.
“You are all sadists!” Margaret was screaming.
Whittaker was watching Mr. Clifford to see his reaction. This new man Pitz could be a threat.
“You are all monsters!” Margaret yelled, knowing that she had lost control of the situation, the one thing she didn’t want to have happened.
Clifford’s decision was made. Pitz knew how to deal with these people.
Clifford stood up. Amazing what the right technique could do. “Call us what you like, Dr. Brown,” he said. “Scream if it pleases you. Do you think it will bring help?” He went over to the huge window and pulled the drape. Outside, a few people had stopped to listen. When they saw him, they continued on their way. Spineless vermin.
Turning to Margaret, he said, “We once had Jew-loving Roosevelt in the White House. Did he come to the aid of the European Jews? Not on your life. In extremis, Dr. Brown, the Jews are alone, you hear me, alone. We are going to win, and the only choice you have is to separate yourself from the interests of your husband or share his fate. Which will it be?”
With her hands cuffed behind her back, Margaret could not dry her eyes.
“Last chance,” Clifford said. “Will you tell us what his plans were?”
“The truth is,” she said, “I don’t know. But if I knew, Mr. Clifford, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Well, well, Dr. Brown, what a brave thing to say. The fact is that you have insufficient experience with human nature. Under duress, everybody talks. The only open item in any individual case is how much duress and for how long. You make the choice. You suffer the consequences.”
Margaret looked at each of them in turn. And as her gaze met each of theirs, they turned away, just for a second but long enough for Margaret to feel a touch of victory. And so she said quietly, “God help you all. None of you are Christians.”
Clifford would have killed her on the spot, choked her with his bare hands, but with his senior staff watching, he had to set an example. He didn’t want them to react violently to insolence. There were methods, procedures for dealing with this. He said, “God help your husband when we find him, Dr. Brown, as we most assuredly will. And in the meantime, you’ll need some help yourself.” He turned. “Oliver and Allen, see that this woman puts some clothes over her ugly body and take her to the lockers.”
“Yes, sir,” Oliver said. “How many hours, sir?”
“Since the lady wants to be a Christian martyr to Jewish scum, I’d just leave her there.”
Clifford watched the two men take Margaret away, then turned to Dan. “Mr. Pitz,” he said, “could you really do that tampon thing?”
Dan didn’t hesitate. “Of course, sir.”
“Very good. Clete, I’ve got a plan for finding your vagabond. First, I’d like you to take Mr. Pitz on a tour around Cliffhaven, introduce him to all the niceties of our three-star ghetto. I want him to like this place.”
“Yes, sir,” Clete said.
“Be back here in twenty minutes. In the meantime, George and I are going to have ourselves a little talk.”
*
When they were alone, Mr. Clifford sat on the couch quite close to Mr. Whittaker, knowing that proximity always unnerved him.
“What did you think of our newcomer, George?”
“I’m sure Pitz will be very helpful to me.”
“He’s got one interesting qualification you didn’t have when you arrived here, George.”
“What is that, sir?”
“He’s killed three people and gotten away with it. Of course, you’ve disposed of many more than that number since coming here, but it took you a little getting used to. George, I’m concerned about the laxness in security under your administration. Was Clete responsible for Brown’s escape?”
Whittaker thought he likes that son of a bitch. “No, sir,” he said. “Clete is top rate.”
“I agree. Therefore, you accept the responsibility.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Not if you can help it?”
“Right, sir.”
“George, I have some evidence that you have several times in this past year had sexual relations with Mrs. Clifford right on these premises, is that not true?”
Clifford watched George hesitate.
“It was on her initiative, sir.”
“Does that excuse it?”
“No, sir. What else could I do?”
“You could have refused her. It won’t happen again?”
“No, sir.”
“George, I have a much more serious matter to discuss with you. Why do you keep that diary?”
Whittaker blanched. “What diary, sir?”
“Oh, do you keep more than one?”
“No, sir.”
“Just that one?”
Whittaker had always despised people who resorted to the Fifth Amendment on the witness stand. Right now he wished he could do so.
Mr. Clifford turned to his attaché case, snapped the two locks open, click and click, and removed the diary. He held it in front of Whittaker’s face. “Why?” he asked.
Whittaker hung his head, trying desperately to think.
“I’ll tell you why, George. You wanted a record showing that everything you did as manager of Cliffhaven was following an instruction of mine, so that if Cliffhaven is ever exposed, you could plead that you were only following orders, is that not true?”
Whittaker was relieved that there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Mr. Clifford called.
Clete and Dan Pitz came in.
“Ah,” Mr. Clifford said. “How do you like the place?”
“It’s terrific,” Dan said.
“I’m glad you like it,” Mr. Clifford said. “Clete, I want a meeting of the entire staff as soon as possible. I want to instruct them in my plan for recapturing Brown. I also want to announce that George has resigned as manager and that Dan Pitz is taking over effective immediately. Clete, perhaps you could accompany George to pick up his things in his room and then give him a ride off the premises.”
George reached to pick up the diary.
“I think that’ll stay with me,” Mr. Clifford said.
*
The moment George Whittaker and Clete were out of the building, Whittaker turned on him.
“You son of a bitch! You told him about that diary!”
“What diary?”
“Don’t pretend with me.”
“Well, you listen to me for a change,” Clete said. “You drummed loyalty, loyalty, loyalty into my head, didn’t you? It wasn’t loyalty to you you were talking about, right, loyalty to Cliffhaven, right?”
“I’ll get you, Clete.”
Clete took the .38 out of his windbreaker pocket. “My instructions are to see you off the premises. If you resist, I use this and cart your body away, that clear? Now, let’s get your gear packed.”
George Whittaker decided that his life was more important than revenge. Besides, revenge could come later. Would he dare blow the whistle on the whole place? And incriminate himself? That bastard Clifford really had things figured out, didn’t he?
As they reached Whittaker’s quarters, he said to Clete, “I’ve got a lot of stuff.”
“That’s okay,” Clete said. “The last van that came in with guests will hold your stuff.”
Whittaker took his time packing because he wanted to think. Clete volunteered to help him. Clete wouldn’t be helping him if he didn’t want to get him off the premises as fast as possible. He began to think of what job he might want to try next. He couldn’t use Cliffhaven as a reference, could he? Mr. Clifford was smart. He’d give him a terrific reference.
When they got the gear loaded into the van, Clete took the wheel, George beside him. He could see how nervous George was. He didn’t like dealing with nervous ones.
“Hey,” Clete said, “since you’ve got all this stuff, I thought I’d let you have this van till you get to wherever you’re going. When you settle in, give me a ring and I’ll arrange to have it picked up.”
Whittaker was suspicious, but said, “That’s nice of you, Clete. You’re just driving me as far as the highway?”
Clete didn’t answer.
“Clete,” George said, “don’t you want to hook a scooter to the van for the ride back up?”
Suddenly Clete picked up speed, heading around the back of the dining hall, and George said, “Hey!” but Clete kept his eyes riveted to the road heading for the gully. George frantically tried the handle on the passenger door, but Clete had followed regulations, fixing it so that it could not be opened. Time to go, Clete thought, pumped the brake hard once, twice, it was still going twenty, what the hell, he opened the door on the driver’s side and with one movement leaped out, as he had many times before, rolling as he had learned to do, hearing George scream the way some of the Jews did as the van went straight off the edge of the precipice, thinking Pitz was tougher than George, and they’d have a real good time when they found Brown.
15
Henry woke with the thought there are Gentiles out there who would be horrified if they knew what was going on in this place.
Above him it was bright daylight, blue sky with only a few scattered clouds drifting in from the Pacific. He had slept as if drugged.
Henry stretched, feeling the ache in his back. This place is Clifford’s invention. His followers obey him. How many followers would Clifford find outside?
Weren’t all of the staff members outside when he found them?
Henry touched the side of his head. It still hurt.
You are a nice Jew. Not like the others.
What was your father’s name before it was Brown? Braunstein?
If you Jews are always in trouble, there must be something about you that causes trouble, don’t you think?
I think one must not get paranoid. I must give my will strength. Remember, there are Gentiles out there who try to compensate for history, who like Jews too much. They have a taste for worriers? Are they attracted to the Jewish intellectuals, sprinkled everywhere, who think by talking, who are forever on the trail of solutions for the insoluble? Bullshit. They are attracted to Jews out of guilt!
Henry, you’re going too far. It isn’t always this way. From time to time every Jew looks over his shoulder and finds that there’s no one following him.
Henry laughed. He felt his body coming to life. He stretched again.
Time to act. Carefully, Henry raised himself so that he might see over the low parapet. At a great distance some of the guests were meandering slowly down to the dining hall for breakfast. He wondered if any of them had kept kosher at home. What did they do here?
They ate what they were given.
At home, if you were hungry you went to the refrigerator. If you were not at home, you stopped in a restaurant, or picked up something at a takeout place. He smiled at the thought of the credit cards in his pocket. Margaret called them his plastic security blankets. Not they, not all the money in the world would get him food without his surrendering. Would a hundred dollars get him a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a cup of water? What was that 1930s book by Michael Gold, Jews Without Money? This place was filled with them.
Looking carefully over the parapet again, Henry saw stragglers heading for the dining hall. If Margaret was among them, he could not see her. If she were here, she would say be logical. Homo sapiens, use your brain.
He remembered when she had said those exact words. Two years after he had started his business, the fulfillment center was a round-the-clock worry. Some days the incoming customer complaints were more numerous than the orders. There were cash-flow problems, and the personnel turnover created the endless process of training many new people who would soon leave. It was like trying to fill a leaky pail with a teacup, and so he brought his worries to Margaret’s dissecting table.
Homo sapiens, she said, use your brain. “What do people want from your so-called fulfillment center?”
“They want what they ordered, not something else.”
“And?”
“They want it quickly, but what can I do? The least able, lowest-paid clerks are the pickers. They are dull. They don’t even respond to incentives.”
“Yes, they do,” Margaret said. “Negative incentives. They don’t get into trouble if there’s a policeman watching.”
That got them started. It was an exciting evening, starting from scratch as if the business did not yet exist. Knowing what you know now, how would you set it up? they asked themselves.
To avoid wrong shipments your order pickers had to fill hundreds of orders a day, each one perfectly. Yet it was one of the lowest-paid jobs in the plant. They were the unskilled—no previous experience, the ads said. You couldn’t have highly skilled people as pickers, the cost per order would be prohibitive. Moreover, it’s the kind of job that would drive most people bananas. People who could pick four hundred orders a day of miscellaneous items without getting some of them screwed up didn’t want to do that kind of work. So you had to surround those who did with a system that would police them.
Negative incentives, she had said.
He could hire two inspectors to sit at the end of the collection points where the baskets were brought, and have them double-check the orders. If they caught only five or six mistakes in a day, was it worth their salaries? The point was, the order pickers would be more careful, knowing that their baskets would be checked. It was like the presence of a policeman, worth his salary as a preventer of crimes that wouldn’t happen.
His highest-paid clerks were in the customer correspondence section. Their work would be cut enormously if the orders were picked right in the first place and shipped out promptly. Promptly. He’d set up a system where every day the people who opened the incoming orders would be the first on the job, then the order processors, then the pickers, then the packers. The order openers, first to arrive, would be first to leave, but only when every order in the day’s mail had been okayed and passed on to the order processors. When the pickers had received the last incoming order, the order processors would leave. The pickers would leave when the last basket successfully passed the check-out point. The packers, last to arrive, were the last to leave. On Monday everybody would work long hours to take care of three days’ worth of mail. On Friday everybody could get away by noon or one o’clock to take an extra half-day holiday each weekend.
