Earth and High Heaven (22 page)

‘Along the line of smoky hills

The crimson forest stands

And all the day the bluejay calls

Throughout the autumn lands.

Now by the brook the maple leans

With all his glory spread

And all the sumachs on the hills

Have turned their green to red.'

“It was like that. We walked through the bush and fished for a while and then had lunch and fished some more. We came out by a small lake just at sunset, and then we went home. That was all.”

His eyes left the mirror and came back to her face and he said, “What about your day?”

“It wasn't a day, it was an evening in Paris the last time I was there, when Mimi and I were walking down Champs Elysées all the way from the Arc de Triomphe to Place de la Concorde. Every time a car went by it lit up the lower branches of the trees and then it was dark with just the street lamps and the moon again. Mimi was as happy as I was. We couldn't even talk.”

“Paris will never look like that again, Eric ...”

“It wasn't just Paris, it was the whole world.”

“... or the woods back of David's place in October 1938.” A moment later he said, looking straight ahead of him, “Or anyone else after you.”

Days later, when she was trying to locate the exact moment at which she had received the first warning, the moment which marked the beginning of the final stage in their relationship, she was to remember the way he had said, “Or anyone else after you.” There was no hope in his voice at that moment, either for a future with Erica or a future without her, only the first indication of his acceptance of a world in which the chances were still a million to one against his ever managing to be in complete harmony again.

The moment went by unnoticed at the time, for immediately after he said, “October 1938,” in a different tone, and after another pause he repeated it a third time, as though the words were the key to another memory of which all he could recall so far was its purely evil associations.

Not October, Erica thought. He was a month out.

She said, “May I have a cigarette, please?” He handed her the package and she took one, and after waiting a little, she asked for a match.

He said absently, “I'm sorry,” and gave her the packet of matches.

“Our whippoorwill's back again.” There was another pause and she asked, “Who wrote that poem?”

“Wilfrid Campbell.”

It was no use. You could not hope to keep it out, even out of a hotel in the Laurentians at three o'clock in the morning, by talking about whippoorwills and poetry and asking for cigarettes and matches, and at last she said, “I know what you're thinking of. You've got the wrong date; it wasn't October, it was November 1938.”

“Yes,” said Marc. “Yes, of course it was.”

He put the ashtray down on the bed between them and remarked, “I'm glad it wasn't October, that would have been carrying escapism too far. Besides, I'd hate to have my pet memory go sour on me.” He turned his head and smiled at her and said, “I don't know what I'm talking about.”

“You hadn't any relatives in Germany, had you?”

“Yes, some of my mother's family, particularly my first cousin. He was about my age, and when I was over there in 1932 I stayed with them and he and I went on a hiking trip in Switzerland together. We were both students then. Afterwards he took a degree in science and another one in law and got a job working on patents in one of the big chemical firms. He was pretty brilliant and I guess the Nazis just decided to overlook him — anyhow, he and his family managed to get along somehow or another until November '38.”

He said aimlessly, “I was always arguing with them about getting out but they wouldn't, of course, because even in 1932 there were fewer restrictions in Germany than here. I mean, they were a part of things.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don't know. They said he'd been ‘shot trying to escape' from a concentration camp. My uncle was arrested at the same time and last year my aunt and Hedy, the daughter, were sent to Poland. They were the only ones left.”

As soon as she had heard him say “October 1938” the second time, she had known that there was something more than the fact that November 1938 had been a black month, by far the blackest until much later, but she had not known that there was a family with whom he had lived and a cousin about his own age with whom he had gone hiking in Switzerland.

He was lying on his back looking up at the ceiling, and she could feel him drawing steadily farther and farther away from her until he seemed to be wholly detached. There began to be something strange and unfamiliar about him, and she was seized with panic, wondering what she was doing here beside him where she so obviously did not belong. His isolation was so complete that it was as though he had entirely finished with her. In despair, and overwhelmed by the one impulsion to cover herself with something beside the sheet which covered both of them, in a single movement she caught up her nightdress which had been thrown across the foot of the bed and slipped it over her shoulders.

“What are you doing that for?”

She was so startled by the sound of his voice that she stopped, transfixed, with her arms over her head. “Because — because you — Oh!” said Erica helplessly. “The damn thing's got twisted. Help me on with it and don't ask silly questions.”

“Not until you tell me why.”

“I feel indecent.”

She got her head out at last and their eyes met. They looked at each other in silence until Marc said, “I'm sorry, Eric.”

“It's all right.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. Still looking at her he said, “You certainly do get it both ways, don't you?” and a moment later he suddenly pulled her down beside him and said again with his face against hers, “I'm sorry, darling, I'm an awful fool. I didn't mean to desert you like that ...”

“Particularly with nothing on,” she said in a muffled voice. She clung to him until it was really all right again, and then raising her head so that she could look into his eyes she said, “I want to tell you something, Marc. I'm not afraid of other people, nothing they say or do can get inside me where it really hurts if I don't let it. I'm only afraid of one thing ...”

“Yes, go on.”

“I'm afraid of being shut out.” She sat up, holding his hand tightly in both hers and said, “Please start by assuming that I can understand and not that I can't. It's terribly important, I think it's more important to me than anything else. If you say or even let yourself think that I can't understand something simply because I'm not Jewish, then you put me in a position where I'm utterly helpless. It's like ...” She stopped and then said, “It's like tying me to a chair and then blaming me because I can't get up and walk. I've got quite a lot of imagination and I don't think I'm stupid or insensitive ...”

Her grip on his hand tightened still more and she said, “Give me a chance to understand and if I let you down, then — well,
then
you can shut me out. I guess I'll have deserved it. It's not my fault that I'm not Jewish and I can't do anything about it, but surely ...” She stopped again, and with her eyes and her voice full of tears she said, “Surely the fact that I love you so much makes up for it!”

He had not once taken his eyes from her face. He said roughly, “Eric, for God's sake!” and took her in his arms again.

She said at last, “Darling, you've got a grip like a steel trap and you're hurting me.”

He relaxed a little, smoothed back a strand of fair hair which had fallen over her forehead and smiled down at her. He was still somewhat unnerved. “Are you all right?”

Erica nodded. “Are you?”

“Well, almost,” said Marc. “You have an awful effect on me, Eric. Whenever you say that you love me, I feel as though I'm being turned inside out, only this time it was worse because of the build up. Do you know what we need?”

“No, what?”

“Some kind of insulation.”

“Why?”

“I mean just to protect ourselves when we're together so we won't feel so much.”

“I don't think I want to be insulated,” said Erica, after considering it. “Probably it all goes together, so that if ...”

“You have the most irritating habit of starting to say something interesting and then stopping in the middle. However, I see what you mean.” He kissed her and then asked, “Do you still feel indecent?”

“No.”

“All right, take that thing off again then.”

He got up and went over to the window. “It's a marvellous night, Eric,” he said, his eyes following the course of the Milky Way through the sky until the stream of stars disappeared over the dark shoulder of the mountain across the lake. The lake itself was full of moonlight and there was a light breeze which had turned the water in the path of the moon to frozen silver.

He came back and stood looking down at her face and her hair spread out on the pillow.

“You belong to a museum,” said Erica, for there was such perfection of line and form in the moulding of his body that he seemed unreal in the dimly lit room, like a figure out of Greece two thousand years before. “Except for your face,” she added. “Your face doesn't go with the rest of you. One of your ancestors must have got mixed up with a good Austrian peasant ...”

Her voice died away in the stillness of the room as he went on standing there, and then suddenly took the top of the sheet with one hand and pulled it down to her feet. “I want to remember the way you look,” he said, his voice so low that she could hardly hear it.

She lay motionless under his eyes and then turned over on her face and began to cry again. He dropped down on the bed beside her and put his arm around her and said, his voice shaking, “Don't, Eric, please, my dearest, please don't. You can't cry now, it's only Friday.”

But it was not because there was so little time left that she was crying, although that was part of it. There was something else which she did not know how to explain, even to herself, except that in this one night she seemed to have lost what little had remained of her detachment; she had taken on his vulnerability without his endurance, and she was crying for herself as well as for Marc.

She put both her arms around him and went on crying until there were no more tears left, and after a while both of them had forgotten how it had started or what it was all about. When the church clock struck five in the village at the other end of the lake, neither of them heard it.

VIII

“Our government is really wonderful,” remarked Sylvia as the telephone rang on Erica's desk at half past eleven on Monday morning.

“You take it, Bubbles,” said Erica. The train from Ottawa where she had spent Sunday night with Marc had been late arriving in Montreal; the first edition had gone to press ten minutes after she had reached her office and she was still struggling to catch up. “I won't talk to anybody.”

“The Consumer's Division of the Department of Agriculture,” continued Sylvia, although no one seemed to be listening, “has just produced another masterpiece in the form of a cake which takes no butter, no eggs, and no sugar. Now why not just no cake, and be done with it?”

“You might write and ask them,” said Erica absently.

“It's for you, Eric,” said Weathersby, adding as Erica was about to protest, “I know, but it's someone who claims she's your sister. You'd better investigate.”

“Tell her to hold on a minute,” said Erica, still typing. “Bubbles ...”

“Yeah?”

“Have you got my cigarettes again?”

“What do you mean, ‘again'?” he demanded, looking injured.

“Never mind. Hand them over.”

“It probably is her sister,” Sylvia pointed out to him as he passed her desk bearing Erica's cigarettes. “At your age, you've no reason to be so suspicious. You ought to be in a good school somewhere,” she added vaguely, “learning about cricket, instead of learning about life in a newspaper office. Where are those wedding pictures, Bubbles?”

“On Eric's desk. And I already know all about cricket, I finished school last year. Eric ...”

“Mm?”

“Do you want me to do the stuff on wartime canning?”

“I suppose you know all about canning too?” inquired Sylvia.

“I'll bet I know just as much about it as you do. Don't I, Eric?

“Don't you what?”

“Don't I know as much about canning as Sylvia does?”

“Leave me out of it,” said Erica. “I'm busy.”

Weathersby returned to his desk, regarding Sylvia thoughtfully for a while, and asked finally, “Now supposing you wanted to make jelly ... how would you go about it?”

“What kind of jelly?”

“Any kind.”

“Couldn't we start with jam and work up to it gradually?”

“We did,” said Weathersby patiently. “We did the jam yesterday. Today, we are going to make jelly. So what would be the first step?”

“The first step would be to read the government bulletin on wartime canning, just like you,” she added pointedly. “If you can understand it, presumably anyone can. Give,” she said, holding out her hand.

“I haven't read it yet,” said Weathersby without moving.

“Oh? How did you get to be such an authority on making jelly, then?”

“Because I've watched my mother. The trick is to get it to set so it doesn't come out all runny.”

“Not really,” said Sylvia. “Did you figure all that out for yourself?”

“And just how would you get it to set?”

“I'll bite,” said Sylvia. “How would I?”

“Well, if you knew anything about canning, which you obviously don't, you'd mix it with wax.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You'd mix the fruit with melted wax — after you'd strained it, of course.”

“I see,” said Sylvia. She regarded the long stringy figure of Weathersby Canning with some admiration and then said at last, “Bubbles, how would you like to have a column of your own? We could call it ...” She paused, her chin on her hand, and then suggested, “We could call it ‘Canning on Canning.' If you were given a sufficiently free hand, the results ought to be genuinely interesting.”

“I don't know,” said Weathersby doubtfully. “I don't think I know enough about it to keep it up indefinitely.” He picked up the government bulletin, glanced through a few pages and said, “Well, can I do it, Eric?”

“Ask Sylvia.”

“What is it?” said Sylvia. “A press release?”

Weathersby nodded.

“O.K., go ahead and rehash it but stick to what it says there and don't put in any of your mother's bright ideas. We don't want all our readers to be poisoned.”

“Why not?” said Weathersby. “They wouldn't be poisoned all at once; a lot of them wouldn't get around to eating the stuff till sometime next spring. I mean, it would be so gradual that no one would notice.”

“No one but the circulation department and they'd start noticing in a couple of days. The circulation department is unusually sensitive.”

“What's the matter with you two?” asked Erica, finally ripping the sheet from her typewriter with one hand and reaching for her phone with the other.

“I wouldn't know about Weathersby,” said Sylvia dreamily, “but I'm getting married.”

Erica's hand dropped from the phone and she said, “Mike?” Sylvia nodded. “Oh, darling, I'm so glad!”

“Thanks, Eric. I still feel sort of dizzy,” she remarked apologetically. “We're going to be married a week from Saturday. We're only inviting a few people — just you and Marc and one or two others. Do you think Marc will be able to make it?”

Erica shook her head. “He won't get any leave till the week after. I'll come, though. That doesn't mean you've given up your job, does it?”

“No such luck. Mike's joined the Army. We'll have a week together somewhere and then he's going to camp.”

“He'll be here for months yet, anyhow,” said Erica, her face changing. “You're lucky.”

“After all,” said Weathersby, talking to himself out loud.

“What difference does it make? She's probably died of old age by this time, so why bother?”

“Why bother what? Who are you talking about?” asked Erica.

“Why bother answering your telephone.”

“Good heavens,” said Erica, and grabbed her phone. “Hello, Mimi ... are you still there?”

“Hello, Eric. This seems to be a lousy time to call you ...”

“No, it's all right. I was finishing up a job and then Sylvia suddenly announced that she was getting married.”

“Who to?”

“Mike O'Brien, one of the reporters.”

“Wish her luck for me,” said Miriam. “How are you, Eric?”

Erica looked blankly at Weathersby who was sitting with his feet on his desk in the corner, engrossed in the government bulletin on wartime canning, and she said, “I guess I'm all right.”

“When did you get in?”

“On the ten-thirty from Ottawa, only it was late. Marc's train left just after mine so I didn't have to ...” She stopped, and asked, “What do you want, Mimi?”

“I wanted you to lunch with me.”

“All right. I'll meet you at that Italian restaurant round the corner from the cathedral at one. It's just off Place d'Armes ...”

“I know where it is,” said Miriam. “Thanks, Eric.”

Erica rang off, sat for a moment, then straightened up, drawing in her breath, and asked, “Where's the stuff on the Wrens?”

“On your desk underneath that pile of pictures,” said Weathersby. “Are you feeling all right, Eric?”

She stared at him and then said suddenly, “Shut up.”

“O.K.,” said Weathersby. “O.K.” He glanced at Sylvia, raised one eyebrow and demanded, “Why Mike, for God's sake?”

“And what's the matter with Mike?”

“He's got red hair. If I were a woman, I wouldn't marry a guy with red hair who can't even afford to pay for his own lunch. Well, anyhow,” said Weathersby kindly, “congratulations. I hope you'll be happy on relief.”

“Thank you, Weathersby,” said Sylvia. “Just for that, I'll allow you to write up my wedding. Eric ...”

“Yes?”

“I'll do the Wren story for you.”

“No, thanks, I'll do it. What's this?” she asked, referring to a pile of photographs. “Don't tell me we had that many weddings left over!”

Erica started to work again. When the final edition was ready to go to press, she began to line up her material for Tuesday's first edition. The thing was to go on working and not to look up, for fear you might see him standing there and hear the sound of his voice and feel the touch of his hands, not to stop for a moment for fear you would be caught. The thing to do was to go on working and not to think of the future which contained forty-eight hours, one weekend, and probably nothing more. Some women were lucky; they say goodbye and knew exactly what they're up against — the simple, straightforward, uncomplicated all-or-nothing alternative of life or death. If he lives, he comes back; if he's killed, he doesn't. But Marc may live or he may not, and if he lives he may come back, or he may not.

Later, put it off until later. Get your mind on something else.

She looked down at the typewritten page in front of her which was headed “Women's War Group Extends Work,” and a moment later she heard her own voice call out, “Sylvia!”

“Yes,” said Sylvia, starting. “Yes, what is it?”

“I ... I don't ...” She put one hand to her forehead, wondering what it was she had meant to say. Sylvia was looking at her in alarm, and it was necessary to say something, so she asked, “Where's the syndicate stuff?”

“On your desk, Eric.” She got up, crossed the room and standing in front of Erica she said, “Are you sure you're feeling all right?”

“Yes, I'm sorry.”

She said, “He hasn't gone yet, Eric. Besides, they get Postponements — my brother was home three times after his embarkation leave.”

“Was he?” Erica looked up at her for a moment, and then said, “It isn't that.”

“Why don't you go and get some lunch.”

“What time is it?”

“Five past one. Weren't you supposed to meet Miriam at one?”

Erica remembered Miriam then, and she said, “My gosh, I must be going nuts.”

She found Miriam sitting at a small table by the wall which was decorated with a large colored photograph of the Bay of Naples. She was wearing a white dress, and in spite of the heat which swept into the half-shuttered restaurant from the blazing street outside whenever the door was opened, and seeped through cracks when it was closed, her face was chalky and she looked cold.

She cut short Erica's apologies for once more keeping her waiting, with, “Let's order and get it over with.” When the waitress had come and gone and Erica asked if there was something wrong, instead of answering she asked, “How was your weekend, Eric?”

“It was almost perfect.”

Her eyes left Miriam's face, followed a waiter as he made his way down the stuffy little room and disappeared through the swing door leading to the kitchen, and finally came to rest at a bad oil painting of Venice hanging on the back wall. There was nothing, no typewriter, no story of the Wrens, no weddings or meetings, not even two familiar voices discussing the best method of making jelly on the other side of the room — nothing to hold her to the present and keep her from slipping back into the past. She gave up trying and let herself go, back to the mountain lake, the little brightly painted houses like toys on the hillside opposite the hotel, the terrace with orange and yellow umbrellas, the light panelled bedroom with homespun curtains and a small lamp on the bedside table which cast a long oval shadow across the ceiling. Everywhere she looked she saw Marc again, lying on the float beside her, sitting in the stern of a red canoe watching the water dripping off the blade of his paddle, stretched out on a deck chair in a pair of dark red bathing trunks, grinning because some woman had just remarked very audibly to her companion that he ought to be in the Army. “What does she want me to do — wear my uniform in swimming?”

“Why ‘almost'? asked Miriam.

Her eyes left the painting of Venice on the back wall and returned to Miriam and she said, “Because I'm not going to win after all, Mimi. I'm going to lose.”

“Why?”

“I don't know why,” said Erica, having failed to think of any way of explaining it so that it made sense. Sometime during the past three days she had realized that Marc was tired out, that was all, but added to everything else, sooner or later that tiredness would prove to be fatal. He had been up against it for seventeen years, ever since he had left home, and he had already had more than enough; he was simply not fit to take on another and far worse struggle involving another person, when he needed his resources for himself. He was due to go overseas in a few weeks, and although he had somehow contrived to get through his officer's training, one of a total of seven out of a class of five hundred to finish with a Q-I rating, and by the same willpower he would somehow contrive to get through the war just as creditably, at the same time it was not going to be easy. Of all the men Erica had ever known, he was by nature the least adapted to military life. There are limits to the number of demands you can make on anyone's endurance, and to expect Marc to take on his family, his wife's family and most of his own friends as well as hers, at this time of all times, was really to expect too much.

“Did he say anything in particular?” asked Miriam.

“No. It wasn't anything he said or did, it was just something I ...” she paused and then said hopelessly, “something I could feel.”

“You're not imagining, are you?”

Erica shook her head.

“Then how much longer do you give it?”

“Until he goes home for the last half of his embarkation leave.”

“It's too bad it's not the other way round,” said Miriam. “I'd rather you had the last half.”

“It wouldn't make any difference,” said Erica, looking down at the plate of food which had appeared in front of her. “I guess I'm just hopelessly outnumbered.”

“You think his family is going to work on him, is that it?”

“I don't think it, I know it. They'll say everything he knows my family has been saying for the past three months, only they'll have to pack it all into three days.”