Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  Charles stood and scrutinized him. Yes, Friederich was an “innocent.” He had been “used.” He’d seen the face of the enemy many times, and he hadn’t recognized it. But how to make this innocent man see?

  Charles said to his brother: “None of us can see the plot clearly. They’re too clever for that. They don’t show themselves; they hide, the hating, scrawny, greedy, malicious bastards! They want power, and hate the rest of the world because they don’t have it, aren’t fit for it, and would only misuse it.”

  George Hadden nodded. “Yes, we discussed that before, Charlie.”

  Helen sighed. “I don’t know what it’s all about, George. I only know what I’ve heard and seen in Europe.”

  Then Friederich blurted out: “I never thought of that! Karl, I think I know what you mean. Now, there’s that man I know in Chicago—” He stopped abruptly.

  Charles said: “Yes.” He turned to Miss Hadden: “You only saw and heard what was on the surface. You saw the bubbles; you didn’t see the river underneath.”

  He thought of his son. He said: “And there’s nothing we can do, any of us. We can just slide down to hell, that’s all.”

  George got to his feet, and took his sister gently by the hand. She stood up, obediently. As Charles had known, she was a small woman, but she had great dignity and the presence which only integrity could give.

  She gave her hand to Friederich. He took it, but he seemed dazed. She said: “Will you and your brother have dinner with my parents and me, soon, Mr. Wittmann?”

  Now Friederich came out of his sick stupor. He said: “Yes, yes, at any time, at any time, Miss Hadden!” He clutched her hand as if he were a child awakening from a dreadful nightmare.

  Helen gave him a smile of tenderness and compassion before turning to Charles. Now she was grave again. “Yes, I think I’m beginning to understand,” she repeated. “If there is a war, those you spoke about will show themselves. Afterwards. They always do.”

  She and her brother offered Charles a ride home. But he indicated he wanted to stay for a few moments with Friederich, and they left. When he was alone with Friederich he said:

  “That was all important, Fred. And it concerns us too. Whatever happens in the company you’ve got to trust me. There’ll be times you’ll be lied to, Friederich, but you’ve got to trust me.”

  Friederich had just come back from the door after saying good night to his new friends. He stood at a little distance and looked at his brother, and he rubbed his tremulous hands together, blinking.

  “If you don’t trust me, we’ll lose everything,” Charles said. “Not only our company, either.”

  Friederich continued to rub his hands and to blink. Then he began to cough spasmodically, and the sound was sad to Charles. He waited until the spasm had passed, and Friederich could speak.

  “I never trusted you, Karl. Never before this. But—but I think I do, now. But tell me, tell me! Don’t hide things from me! Don’t—manoeuver!”

  “There’ll be times I can’t tell you everything—not immediately. That’s why you’ve got to trust me.”

  Friederich suddenly thrust out his hand, stiffly, and Charles took it. “All right, Karl,” Friederich said. “I’ll trust you.”

  I hope so, thought Charles. But he was not a very trustful man, himself, and he wondered, drearily.

  Friederich smiled shyly, and looked away. He went to the door with his brother. Then Charles saw that he was again uneasy. He cleared his throat, and coughed. “Karl, that friend of mine who lives in Chicago: he is visiting me next week. I think you ought to meet him. Yes,” said Friederich, “you must meet him.”

  CHAPTER XXXII

  On Monday morning Charles came to his office earlier than usual, then went into the shops, which were already buzzing and humming and grinding in a fine fervency. He heard the pounding of the machines, the whirring of belts, the scream of metal being assaulted by metal. All these were good sounds, muted so long, but now thundering away as if making up for lost time. Charles loved the metallic smell, the hoarse voices of the men, the sense of movement and the pace of conscientious labor. He stopped to speak to some of the older craftsmen, elderly Germans who still shouted their “jas!” and their “neins!” at each other, and who spoke English with difficulty despite their many years in his service and in his country. Lately, he had begun to speak to them in their native tongue, and this had touched them. There was no man like their Herr President, they said to each other, with devotion. He understood what good work was, and he respected good work and the good worker. There was none of this “hurry, hurry, faster, faster!” which they were hearing of in other factories. How could a man do respectable work with a hammer in his ears? Excellent work was done by men who were admired for their excellence. The Herr President understood dignity.

  Charles beckoned to Tom Murphy, who was overseeing some work by a few young apprentices. Tom came to him alertly. “I want Herman Mohn,” said Charles. “You come along, Tom.” Tom followed him to where another foreman, about forty-eight, was gravely inspecting some new tools. After Tom Murphy, Charles considered Mohn to be his best foreman, a man of German parentage who had inherited the German characteristic of extreme meticulousness. He was a square and solid man, humorless and almost too exact.

  Charles said, carefully not glancing at Tom Murphy: “Herman, Mr. Friederich is coming to the shops in about half an hour. He wants to learn the business. He’ll be in here about three days, and I want you to give him all your time, and teach him. Of course, he can’t learn everything, but I think you can give him a good idea of what all this is about.”

  “Holy St. Francis!” muttered Tom, too audibly. Charles ignored him.

  But Herman gave what Charles had said his ponderous consideration. Then he nodded, without the slightest suspicion of a smile. “Yes, Mr. Wittmann. I’ll do my best.”

  Charles turned to Tom. “I thought it best to turn Mr. Friederich over to Herman. For obvious reasons. Now, Tom, I want you to stay as far away from my brother as possible. Just be tactful. Though I never heard that tact was an Irishman’s leading virtue.” He smiled, motioned with his head for Tom to follow him again. He found a place in a corner where it was not too noisy. “I brought you along when I spoke to Herman, because I didn’t want you to think that I was insulting you in any way, by overlooking you.”

  “But, good God, Mr. Wittmann, I can’t be invisible!” said Tom, irately. “I don’t know how it’s going to be, with Mr. Friederich here. What does he want to come in here for?”

  “Suppose you mind your own business?” said Charles, irritably. “Who owns these shops, anyway?”

  Tom began to whistle, then checked himself. “All right, Mr. Wittmann, all right.” He added, ruefully. “He hates my guts.”

  “Well, you did break his windows, if you remember.” Charles tried not to smile, and only to sound severe. “That wouldn’t endear you to him, under any circumstances.”

  Tom stared at him thoughtfully. He began to scratch his head. He knew all about the animosities between the brothers. This was something new. Who was behind it, Mr. Charlie, or Mr. Joe?

  Charles said: “I thought it about time that Mr. Friederich should take an active interest in what is part of his own factory, at least.”

  He turned and walked away. Tom watched him go, frowning. Something was wrong with Mr. Charlie, these days. Charles stopped to speak to another man, and Tom saw that his profile was tired and haggard, for all the pleasant things he was saying to his employee. Tom followed Charles, and when the latter had almost reached the door of the long tunnel that led to the offices, Tom called: “Mr. Wittmann!”

  Charles halted, and again he was irritable. “Well, what’s the matter now, Tom?”

  Irritability was a new thing in Charles, and Tom was disturbed by it. “It’s nothing, Mr. Wittmann. I was—well, I was just thinking about something that Father Hagerty said last Sunday.”

  Charles cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?” he said.


  Tom turned a bright scarlet. “Mr. Wittmann, maybe you think I’m taking liberties, or something. But, there was Father Hagerty—”

  “A very sincere man,” said Charles. He waited, while Tom’s face became more and more suffused. “I suppose what you’re trying to tell me is that Father Hagerty said something which might apply to me. All right, Tom, what was it?”

  Tom miserably twisted his cap in his hands and cursed himself silently. He felt for his pack of Bull Durham, then let his hand drop back to his side. “Go on, smoke if you want to,” said Charles. So he waited again while Tom pulled out his tobacco, found his papers, and made himself a cigarette with a deftness somewhat impeded by nervous fingers. Charles said: “Make one for me, too, Tom.”

  Some of the old Germans, working industriously at a distance, watched this scene with some disapproval. Everyone knew that the Herr President was a fine man and a just employer, but was it not too much that he should smoke with a foreman? Charles leaned against the door, and inhaled the cigarette Tom had made for him. “Not bad,” he said, approvingly. “My father rolled his own, too. But he could do it faster, Tom.”

  “I feel like a damn fool,” blurted Tom. “And maybe it’ll sound like a kid, me telling you this, Mr. Wittmann. But Father Hagerty said that ‘it was very sad that a man seldom prayed until he had come to the end of his resources.’”

  Charles laughed a little. “So you think I’ve come to the end of my resources, eh?”

  “Well,” said Tom, “you’ve been looking that way for some time, Mr. Wittmann! And what I really wanted to say was that if there was anything I could do—well, God damn it, you’ve just got to ask me, that’s all!”

  Charles did not laugh, now. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, and watched the smoke rising from it. “I know, Tom,” he said, after a few moments of silence.

  He opened the door and then closed it behind him. When he arrived at his office he found Jimmy there, and his friend, Walter Haas. Walter was very like his mother, the minister’s wife. He was short, and quite stout for a boy of eighteen or so, and had fine blond hair, a bright complexion, large, sober gray eyes, and a gentle mouth. Charles was pleased, if surprised, to see the boys, for it was almost school time.

  “Dad, I forgot to ask you for ten dollars for some new books, this morning,” said Jimmy, cheerfully. He had almost regained his old color and his vibrant air. He stood at least six inches taller than his friend, and his dark skin, black hair, and vivacious eyes made the contrast between the two so very vivid that Charles wondered what they saw in each other. Jimmy was always so exuberant, and young Walter was always so quiet.

  Charles liked young people, without any maudlin sentiment. Lately, he had begun to feel compassion for them. He said to Walter: “How are your father and your mother?”

  Walter answered politely: “Very well, thank you, Mr. Wittmann.” He said to Jimmy: “We’d better hurry, Jim. It’s almost nine o’clock.”

  Charles gave his son ten dollars, and said: “It seems to me that you’re needing a lot of books these days, Jimmy. Or do the hot chocolates and sodas come into the picture?”

  Jimmy was hurt. “To be exact, Dad, the books cost nine dollars and fifty cents, and if you want the other fifty cents tonight I’ll give them to you.”

  “I certainly do want them,” said Charles. “Tonight. Your allowance is quite enough, son.”

  Walter listened to this with gravity and approval. Did the youngster ever laugh? thought Charles. What the hell did these two boys talk about? he wondered. Jimmy was virtuously pocketing the ten dollars and throwing his books over his shoulder. Charles remembered that Walter was the only son of his father, though there were three little girls also. The only son, and murder loose in the world. Young sons, everywhere, and men plotting behind great bronze doors.

  “What’s the matter, Dad?” asked Jimmy, forgetting his hurt virtue.

  “Nothing, nothing. If you don’t run like mad, son, you’ll be late.”

  The two went off together, Jimmy in a rush and Walter following more sedately.

  Charles sat down at his desk, and the weakening sensation of shock, which he was experiencing so often lately, came to him again. He leaned his forehead on the back of his hand, his elbow on the desk. His mail lay before him in a neat pile, opened; there were one or two letters, unopened, which had been marked “personal.” He looked at them all, and did not see them.

  One mustn’t get hysterical, he thought. It didn’t do any good to magnify things. If there were terrible ghosts wandering over the earth, who would hear a single man cry out?

  The door opened and Friederich came in, hesitantly. Charles looked up, and tried to smile. He saw at once that Friederich was glum and uncertain, and suspicious. “I’m here,” said Friederich, unnecessarily. Then: “Good morning, Karl.”

  Charles answered normally: “Good morning, Friederich.” He touched the bell on his desk. “You know Herman Mohn, don’t you? He is going to take you around the shops.”

  Friederich nodded solemnly. “A good man, Herman Mohn. Not a trouble-maker,” he added.

  Then Charles knew that Friederich wished to talk with him before going into the shops, for his brother began to show symptoms of uneasiness. He plucked at his fingers; he shifted in his chair. But his clothing was neat, his collar stiff and white, and his formerly untidy hair had been cut and well-brushed. Charles said: “Have you heard from the Haddens?”

  Friederich smiled reluctantly. “Yes. Miss Hadden invited me to dinner with her and her parents, next Friday.” He hesitated. “What must I do, Karl? Is something expected of me? After all, I don’t know much about young ladies.”

  “Flowers. Or a book. Or candy,” replied Charles, promptly.

  “A book,” repeated Friederich.

  Charles said hastily: “Well, perhaps not a book.” He thought of the volumes of Debs and Belz and others he had seen about Friederich’s premises. “Flowers. Girls always like them. And candy for her mother, possibly.”

  Friederich smiled again. “I hope that Miss Hadden and I may be friends some day. You think she has—has—no aversion for me, Karl?” He was anxious.

  “On the contrary,” said Charles, with warmth. He considered. Then he said, with an utter disregard for truth: “In fact, I met George Hadden when I took a walk, yesterday. He told me that his sister had spoken of you, and that she considered you a very distinguished man, and even handsome.”

  Friederich colored, embarrassed. “It’s possible Miss Hadden is prejudiced,” he said. He smoothed an obviously new tie. Charles saw that his fingers were no longer grimy; the nails had been closely cut, and cleaned, and his shoes were polished. Then Charles had another thought.

  “Miss Hadden may be an exceptionally intelligent young lady, but young ladies like to be told flattering things about themselves, and not about their brains,” he said. “In fact, if you tell a woman you think she is intelligent she feels insulted.”

  Friederich was bewildered. “I can’t believe that!” he exclaimed.

  “Well, I know women. So, if I were you, Friederich, I’d talk about anything else but politics, or world matters, when you see her. Even if she is a Quaker, and a serious young woman, she wouldn’t mind it in the least if you mentioned something about her eyes, in a tactful way, of course, or what pretty hands she has, or her smile.” He could see Friederich trying to be tactful and gallant, and pressed his lips hard together.

  Friederich, on whom the implication of being a man of the world had not been lost, assumed an air of judicious importance and understanding. Then all at once he was dismayed. “But I don’t know what to talk about!” he exclaimed.

  Charles was moved. “Well, as I said, you can tell her you admire her for her intelligence, but even more as a woman. She’s very beautiful, in her own way. And then you can talk about her special interests. Women love to talk about themselves, just as we do. But don’t get serious! That’s important. And don’t tell her very much about yourself. Be mysterio
us, and strong.” Friederich nodded, sat very erect in his chair. It then occurred to Charles that Friederich had spoken not a word of German since he had entered this office.

  Friederich stood up. He actually buttoned his coat, carefully. “A very nice suit,” said Charles. “Where did you buy it? Philadelphia?”

  “No, right here in Andersburg.” Friederich’s gratification was touching. “Good material,” Friederich added. Then he looked at Charles intently, and his broad and bony face became somber. “Karl, have you told Jochen I’m coming in?”

  “Not yet. But why should you think that important? Haven’t you as good a right to be here as he?”

  Every last vestige of suspicion left Friederich. “Yes, of course,” he said. He hesitated. “Jochen’s not going to like it, however.”

  “I know. What does it matter? You are treasurer, here. Friederich, you’re not finished with Joe. He’ll get after you, as I told you. And again, I must ask you to trust me.”

  Friederich clenched and unclenched his hands, almost desperately.

  “Yes, Karl. I want to trust you. I’ve got to trust you. Something tells me I should.” He was silent. Then he burst out: “I’ve not forgotten Brinkwell, and that dog!”

  He walked with jerky rapidity to the door, then stopped. Charles waited. His brother turned, and he appeared agitated. “I believe you’re being honest with me, Karl. You’ve influenced me, and I don’t know! I’ve been rereading some of Belz’s books and pamphlets, and remembering what you and Miss Hadden said the other night, and now they sound—they sound—”

  “Yes,” said Charles.

  “But I’ve known him for years! I never doubted his sincerity, his interest in labor, in uncorrupted politics. Karl, you mustn’t forget that you’re to meet him this week.” He opened the door and closed it with a loud bang behind him.

  Charles sighed. He had accomplished something of immense value, with Friederich. But it was a delicate thing, and there was no trusting the irrational emotionalism of his brother.