It was hard to tell how serious he was for he was very drunk and the English have such a curious sense of humour, but I was
very drunk myself so I just said: ‘I’ve now reached the point where I don’t hate anyone. Hatred makes things worse. Hatred
stops one coming to terms with all the horror and grief. And one must come to terms with it. Somehow.’
‘Ah, the horror, the horror, the horror!’ said the Englishman rapidly, and now I could detect the understated black humour
which he was using to soften the starkness of our conversation. ‘Let me tell you about the horror I found when I went sight-seeing
today. Thought I’d get out of Munich for a quiet day in the country. Found myself at a little place called Dachau. Of course
they don’t advertise it as a tourist attraction but the GIs on duty there will show you around—’
I said: ‘Don’t tell me about it. I don’t want to know.’
But as soon as the words were spoken I knew I had to know every detail.
The young man I had been before the war had danced to a German tune but had been forced to leave the dance-floor before the
music ended. The older man I had become had studied the music in manuscript and knew in theory how the tune finished, but
he still had to hear those final bars. He had to have no doubt whatsoever in his mind what tune he would have danced to if
he had been permitted to remain on the dance-floor till the party’s end.
I went to Dachau.
There are some things which cannot be spoken about. I once met a man who told me he had spent three years as a prisoner of
war, but when I found out that his captors had been the Japanese the conversation ended because I knew there was nothing else
which could be said. If someone had asked me after my return to America: ‘What place in Germany made the deepest impression
on you?’ and I had answered: ‘Dachau,’ that admission too would have precluded further conversation. I could not have spoken
of it. Perhaps I might have said it was a mild springlike day when I went there and everywhere was very quiet and peaceful,
but I could not have spoken of the photographs of the piles of bodies being moved by bulldozers; I could not have spoken of
the fingernail marks raking the ceilings of the gas-ovens; and I could never have spoken of how I felt afterwards when I
walked back across the polluted earth to the gates, and the GI at my side whistled those last lingering bars of ‘Lili Marlene’.
[5]
Mary Martin was singing ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair’ and the audience was loving it. I looked around at the
happy enrapt faces of those who had survived the war to live in a country untouched by destruction, and although I was one
of them I felt cut off, isolated by my survivor’s guilt. It was then I knew that if Cornelius continued to refuse me a leave
of absence I would resign from Van Zale’s because no man, not even Cornelius, was going to stop me from following my conscience
and wiping out the guilt I could no longer endure.
Mary Martin had finished washing her hair onstage and the audience was shouting for an encore.
I thought again of my unique opportunity to wash away my guilt by working for the ECA. By working for both America and Germany
simultaneously I could make amends to Germany for the killings of the American soldiers and yet also make amends to America
for my refusal to fight the Nazis. It was the one valid solution to my dilemma, my one chance to escape for ever from the
painful conflicts of my past, and suddenly as I sat in that Broadway theatre my position seemed clearer than ever before;
I felt as if I had been marked for survival in order that I might make my own special contribution to the post-war world,
and although I was not a superstitious man I was convinced then that if I ignored this role which had been assigned to me
I would not long survive in the empty world I had built for myself in New York.
Mary Martin was singing an encore. The little girl at my side was watching with shining eyes. The show went on – and on –
and on …
[6]
‘Wasn’t that a great show, Uncle Sam?’ said Vicky with enthusiasm.
Her pale blue evening frock had a full skirt, a high neckline and no sleeves, while her hair, coiled in a knot, was pinned
on top of her head to make her look grown up. She was wearing the minimum of makeup, and her fair delicate skin had the bloom
of a peach which some gifted master gardener had been tending with infinite care.
‘Of course musicals are very low-brow,’ she was saying brightly,
‘but I guess even composers like Wagner enjoyed a beer-garden sing-song in between writing episodes of
The Ring
. Do you like Wagner, Uncle Sam?’
‘Who?’ I said teasing her, and we both laughed.
‘I thought you might have enjoyed the Teutonic ambience! Of course he had a lot in common with Nietzsche.’
We were at the Copacabana, and the band, taking a break from the new craze for the rumba, were playing a waltz. A passing
waiter refilled our champagne glasses.
‘Oh, I feel so much better!’ Vicky exclaimed. ‘I wish life was always like this – the theatre, the Copa, waltzes and champagne!
I can’t thank you enough for taking me out, Uncle Sam – it’s just such a wonderful change from everything that’s been happening
lately.’
Unexpectedly I remembered Emily saying in a rush: ‘Cornelius was such a dear little boy and so sweet-natured!’ I smiled at
her. ‘I’m grateful to you for accepting my invitation,’ I said readily. ‘It would have been a real waste of a ticket if you’d
stayed home.’
I started to think of Teresa again. Was she really ill or was she in such a state of depression over her work that she was
unable to face a night out on the town? I resolved to call her as soon as I returned home.
‘Do you have any records of this band, Uncle Sam? Tell me more about your record collection …’
I began to talk about my records, but as I spoke of the music of Louis Armstrong, Kid Ory and Miff Mole I could think only
of that other music, the rustle of discarded clothes, the creak of the bed, the harmony of sighs, the polyphony of pleasure.
I drank my champagne and murmured to Vicky about nothing, but all the while in my mind I was with Teresa, my beautiful Teresa,
and in my mind’s eye I could see her lying naked among the tangled sheets, the little gold cross slipping out of sight between
the curves of her breasts.
‘… Uncle Sam?’ said Vicky.
‘I’m sorry, honey – what did you say?’
‘Can we dance, please?’
‘Why, sure!’ I said, feeling guilty that I hadn’t issued the invitation myself, and escorted her at once on to the dance floor.
Her hand touched my shoulder. Her body brushed mine. I was with Teresa yet not with Teresa, in bed yet out of bed, in heaven
yet down on earth at one and the same time.
I felt the instinctive reflex in my groin and recoiled from her. My voice said: ‘Excuse me just one second—’ and then I was
moving fast, edging past the other couples on the floor and heading blindly for the men’s room. The privacy came as a sickening
relief.
Later after I had washed my hands I wiped the sweat carefully from my forehead with a handkerchief and polished my glasses.
My vision cleared. Looking in the mirror I saw with relief that my face was empty of tension, and making a great effort I
summoned the energy to return to the dance-floor.
I found Vicky sitting stiffly at our table while she watched the dancing. The band was playing a foxtrot.
‘Hi!’ I said smoothly with my easiest smile. ‘Sorry about that! I ate something for lunch which—’ I stopped. I had noticed
how pale she was and now I saw that she was unable to look at me. I had stepped back quickly on the dance floor but evidently
not quickly enough, and in one disastrous moment a light-hearted evening had been transformed into the stickiest of social
morasses.
I knew at once that some sort of acknowledgement would have to be made if we were to meet in the future without embarrassment
so I sat down, forcing myself to remain casual, and said in my most relaxed voice: ‘Why, you must be so tired of all males
exhibiting the same unoriginal behaviour on the dance floor! And to think I wanted to be different from the average kid in
a tuxedo out on his first date! Say, I know it’s a lot to ask but could you possibly find it in your heart to treat my unbelievably
juvenile reflex as a compliment? I assure you I’m not usually so overcome whenever I ask a lady for a dance!’
She looked at me with great searching grey eyes. I waited, holding my breath, but evidently she found what she needed to find
in my expression, for she was able to say without difficulty: ‘Okay. Thanks for the compliment.’
We made no effort to dance again but we had some coffee while I told her about a recent business trip to Los Angeles, and
there was no awkwardness between us. It was only when we left the building that she said shyly: ‘It’s just as well you’re
not really my uncle, isn’t it, or your compliment would have been kind of awkward.’
‘You bet!’ I agreed, striving to maintain my relaxed tone of voice, but the western slang sounded unpleasantly strained in
my ears.
She said nothing else. As my chauffeur opened the door she slipped into the back of the Mercedes while I, taking great care
not to touch her, followed her inside.
‘It was a lovely evening,’ she said politely as we drove through the gates of her father’s house. ‘Thanks again.’
‘My pleasure – it was fun.’ That sounded much too smooth. My casual manner was being shredded by the razor-edge of my tension.
‘Well, so long,’ I said rapidly as I helped her out of the car and gave her
hand the briefest of clasps. ‘Have a wonderful time in Europe, and don’t forget to send me a postcard!’
She stared down at her gloved hands.
‘Vicky?’ I said sharply.
‘I – I feel all confused – upside down – I don’t even know if I want to go to Europe any more—’
Above us the front door opened and Alicia, immaculate in an unadorned black dress, swept down the steps to the driveway.
‘Hullo dear, did you have a nice time? Good, I’m so glad. Thanks so much for being kind enough to give her a treat, Sam. I’m
sure we all appreciate your generosity. Do you want to come in for a drink? We had to cancel going to the dinner-party – Cornelius
had an emergency meeting of one of the Foundation sub-committees and in fact he’s still out, but of course if you’d like a
quick scotch—’
Evidently she was doing her best to restore normal diplomatic relations after her harsh words to me the previous Wednesday,
and I smiled to show her I was equally anxious for a truce. ‘Thanks Alicia, but I have to be getting home,’ I said, taking
care to sound regretful, and then I glanced once more at Vicky. ‘Europe’s the best place for you now, believe me,’ I said.
‘Once you’re there you’ll get a fresh perspective and then you’ll be able to sort out everything far more easily than if you’d
stayed in New York.’
‘I … guess so.’
‘I know so. ’Bye Vicky.
Bon voyage
.’
‘Thanks.’ She did not move and although I looked at her over my shoulder the light from the hall was behind her and I could
not see her expression. It was only when she spoke again that I knew our relationship had entered a new and irreversible phase.
‘Goodbye Sam,’ she said.
[1]
As soon as I reached home I dialled the number of the house in Greenwich Village.
‘Tom?’ said Kevin, pouncing on the phone. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Sorry, Kevin, this is Sam.’
‘Who?’ said Kevin blankly.
‘Sam, you crazy guy! Sam Keller! Say, how’s Teresa? Is she feeling better?’
There was a pause. Then: ‘Just let me focus for a minute,’ said Kevin. ‘God, what a relief to forget about my private life
and concentrate on someone else’s! Teresa? She’s still locked up in the attic with the aspirin bottle, Sam. She asked not
to be disturbed.’
Now I was the one who hesitated. ‘She
is
there, isn’t she?’ I said suddenly. ‘You’re sure she’s there?’
‘Christ, yes! Don’t be ridiculous! Sam—’ He stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m just emerging on the wrong side of a hideous love affair. If you’re at a loose end, why don’t you come out and get drunk
with me?’
Kevin and I weren’t drinking companions. For a second our different worlds bumped together awkwardly and were still.
‘For God’s sake, Sam, I’m not trying to proposition you! What filthy minds you heterosexuals have!’
‘Well, I didn’t for one moment suppose—’
‘I’ll meet you at your apartment in twenty minutes,’ said Kevin, ‘and we can go and hit the bottle some place midtown.’
He hung up. I sat exactly where I was for ten seconds. Then I blundered downstairs into the damp dark April night and grabbed
a cab downtown to the Village.
[2]
There were two entrances to Kevin’s house, the front door and the basement door which had once been the servants’ entrance.
I had often wondered why Kevin had not set the basement level aside for his caretakers but supposed the attic’s north light
would be more attractive to artists than the gloom below street level.
Like Teresa I had the key to the servants’ entrance. The back stairs began in the basement and coiled upwards to the attic
past the doors which opened into the first and second floor hallways.
Above the basement I opened the first of these doors and looked out. The lights were on but everywhere was silent. ‘Kevin?’
I called in a low voice.
There was no answer. Checking his study at the front of the house I found he had abandoned his work not merely in the middle
of a scene but in the middle of a sentence. I went to the kitchen. Amidst
the debris on the crowded kitchen table I found two dirty plates, two empty wine-glasses and a half-finished bottle of Californian
red, while on the stove the remains of
filé gumbo
, one of Teresa’s favourite Creole dishes, clung pungently to a large pot.
I remembered Teresa was supposed to be too ill to cook. I remembered Kevin had been waiting for a friend and had probably
planned on being out that evening. The next moment I was back on the attic stairs.
On the second floor I had to stop to get my breath. The stairs were lit below me, but above my head the last flight of stairs
remained in darkness and I made no attempt to turn on the light. Leaning against the wall I listened to my heart thumping
against my chest and wondered if I were on the verge of making some disastrous mistake, but I knew that even if I were there
was nothing I could do to avoid it. I could not now walk away. I had to go on.
I had just put my foot on the first step of the final flight when I heard Teresa cry out. The cry appalled me. I knew exactly
what it meant, and as the blood rushed to my face I clawed my way up the remaining steps in a haze of rage and pain.
In those last seconds I saw it all and remembered everything, the casual arrogant conversation between Jake and Cornelius
the previous Wednesday, Teresa gazing fascinated into their rich privileged world, Jake taking notice of her and idly asking
for a date. Violence welled up in me. Of course Jake would have got a kick out of taking my girl. I was still a Nazi in his
eyes, and the Jews were never going to forgive the Nazis, never, never, never—
I flung open the door of the attic, punched on the light and stopped dead in my tracks.
There was a flurry from the bed but I paid no attention because all I saw were the paintings. The canvasses were lined up
neatly along the wall like pictures in a street exhibition, and even the cloth was gone from the half-finished work on the
easel.
No one said anything. The bed was in shadow in the corner behind me and because I knew what I would find there I felt no curiosity,
only an instinctive urge to postpone the pain of that final confrontation for as long as possible. The paintings gave me the
excuse I needed, and mesmerized I moved closer to the canvasses.
I saw pictures, neat, bright and obsessively detailed, of small-town American life. I saw the little white frame-houses, the
row of stores and the corner bar all clustered beneath the shadow of an enormous slag-heap, and in the distance were the mountains
and a little white Polish church on a hill. Exquisite care had been lavished
on every detail of that scene, and as I understood the intense yearning which lay behind that representation of a past recaptured,
my throat ached for I saw that Teresa in her art had achieved the impossible. She could move freely between one world and
another. The looking-glass was no barrier to her. By drawing on the vital living entity of her past she had conquered the
rootlessness of the present and triumphed over the American dilemma which had defeated me.
‘He’ll never understand,’ I said to her. ‘Never.’
There was no answer. I turned slowly to face them – and saw with a shock that wiped my mind clean of all emotion that the
scene was even more appalling than I had imagined.
The man with Teresa wasn’t Jake. It was Cornelius.
[3]
Teresa was rigid with fright. Her fingers clutched the sheet tightly across her breasts as if she had forgotten I was accustomed
to her nakedness, and her eyes, reflecting the horror of my presence, were wide and dark. She tried to speak, but of course
there were no words which could adequately have expressed how she felt.
I was still looking at her when he slipped softly from between the sheets and stooped to recover his clothes from the floor.
They were casual clothes, a rich man’s clothes for bumming around, white pants, open-necked checked shirt, loafers, a corduroy
jacket. He looked so young, but young and tough, not young and vulnerable, his hard mouth set in its firmest line, his fine
eyes downcast, his movements rapid and economical. When he was dressed he turned his back on her to look at me but I still
felt nothing, no violence, no pain, no rage. I felt lobotomized by the shock. I just stood there dumbly, and as I stared he
walked right up to me and said with his familiar iron nerve: ‘It was wrong. I’m sorry.’
‘Take her,’ said my shaking voice. ‘She’s yours, you bastard.’
And before another word could be said I left them and stumbled out of the house.
[4]
It was raining. I walked to the corner of the block and paused, unable to remember where I was. There was no cab in sight.
The Village was a blurred mass of bright lights and shiny windows and people trying to
dodge the rain. Later I seemed to be on Eighth Street west of Fifth Avenue although I had no memory of walking east from Kevin’s
house. A prostitute accosted me. I could not understand what she wanted. The sound of one of Frank Sinatra’s songs was drifting
through an open window nearby.
Later I realized I was on the subway in a train crashing dizzily uptown, but I struggled to the surface at Herald Square because
I knew I was going to be ill. I vomited into the gutter, stumbled forward a dozen paces and vomited again. People looked at
me as if I were a Bowery bummer but presently another prostitute accosted me and I had to cross the road to get rid of her.
Standing shivering by Macy’s amidst the brilliant city lights I felt as if I were part of some huge sordid canvas, the antithesis
of Teresa’s paintings, a hell on earth bounded by concrete and great barred doors marked ‘No Exit.’
I somehow got hold of a cab.
‘Park Avenue and …’ I could not speak properly and the vomit had left a bitter taste in my mouth. As the car rocketed along
Thirty-Fourth Street I looked up as if searching for a glimpse of the natural world in the wet night sky, but all I saw was
the blazing hulk of the Empire State Building and beyond it the glow of man-made light cancelling the darkness of nature.
At my apartment building I paid off the cab and groped my way into the lobby.
‘Sam – at last!’ It was Kevin. I had forgotten about him, and as I stopped my eyes mechanically recorded the details of his
appearance, the figure which made casual clothes look smart, the fine lines at the corners of the eyes which needed no glasses,
the fighter’s jaw which marred his matinée-idol looks. It was only then, as I watched him with a stranger’s detachment, that
I realized what a stranger he was to me. We might have shared all the usual adolescent confidences long ago at Bar Harbor
but in later life we had never had one single conversation on any meaningful subject.
He took one look at my face and saw what had happened.
‘You fool,’ he said. ‘I tried to head you off.’
‘You tried too damn hard.’
Some indefinable change in his expression dissolved the mask of his exuberance, and for the first time in my life I saw him
not as the boisterous extrovert who gave the best parties in town but as the enigma who wrote plays in blank verse which I
did not understand.
‘Let me come up to your apartment,’ he said, ‘and I’ll fix you a drink.’
‘I’ve got to be alone.’
‘No. Not just yet. Better not.’
I had no strength to argue with him so we rode the elevator together in silence to my penthouse. In the den I slumped down
on the couch while he poured out the brandy, but it was only when he sat down opposite me that I realized how grateful I was
that he had stayed. Violent emotions were struggling at last to the surface of my mind, and the violence frightened me. I
wouldn’t have wanted to be alone.
‘What a mess I made of that phone conversation,’ he said. ‘I guess it was because I was so upset.’
‘Tell me – I want to know – exactly—’
‘He turned up at eight. Teresa had been cooking and when the doorbell rang I assumed it was you. I don’t mind her using the
kitchen for an important date so long as I’m out, and I was supposed to have plans for the evening – but I was stood up. That’s
why I was there when he arrived. He was very embarrassed when I answered the door, and even tried to embark on some explanation
but I cut him off, told him I didn’t want to listen because I had problems of my own. Then I shut myself up in my study and
tried to work. Needless to say I couldn’t.’
I drank my brandy. Kevin poured me another.
‘Listen, Sam,’ he said at last, ‘this is a disaster of catastrophic dimensions, I realize that, but if you and Teresa really
have something going for you, for God’s sake see if you can’t still work things out – no, listen to me! Just listen! The one
fact to focus on in this mess is that the situation’s not just horrific – it’s inexplicable.’
I looked at him blankly. ‘Inexplicable?’
‘Yes – totally incomprehensible! Just think for a moment. We both know Neil well enough to realize that, incredible though
it may seem, he’s not your usual run-of-the-mill millionaire like Jake who routinely goes around screwing whoever catches
his fancy. He’s a one-woman man. Have you ever known him to be unfaithful to Alicia before?’
‘No, I … never have.’
‘Okay, so you can concede that this is extraordinary behaviour for him. But it’s extraordinary behaviour for Teresa too. Given
her absorption in her work she just doesn’t have the time, let alone the inclination, to practise bed-hopping on the grand
scale.’
I tried to sort this out but it was too difficult for me. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m trying to say that I think tonight’s episode is more likely to be a freak accident than the opening scene of some grand
passion.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ I said. My lips were stiff and it was still hard to form my words properly. ‘I think she’s fallen
for him in the biggest possible way.’
‘Why?’
‘She showed him her pictures.’ I could hardly get the words out. My hand reached automatically for the glass of brandy.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Kevin in disgust. ‘Couldn’t she see that Neil’s the world’s biggest philistine? He can only define art
in terms of a cheque-book and a balance sheet!’
In the hall the buzzer sounded, making us both jump. Brandy slopped on to the table as the glass jerked involuntarily in my
hand.
‘Stay where you are,’ said Kevin. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
But I followed him to the hall.
‘Yes?’ he demanded, picking up the receiver of the intercom. There was a pause. I could hear nothing, and I was just moving
closer when Kevin said tersely: ‘Take my advice and beat it. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night.’
I grabbed the receiver from him. ‘Teresa?’ I said.
Down in the lobby Cornelius cleared his throat.
‘Come up,’ I said, and severed the connection.
Kevin looked sceptical. ‘Are you sure you can handle this right now?’
‘Yes. I want to kill him but I won’t. I’m glad now I was too shocked even to beat him up in the attic. I think you’re right,
Kevin. There’s got to be some sort of explanation. I just can’t believe—’ I paused to wipe the sweat from my forehead, but
at last I was able to say evenly: ‘I’m not working any more at Van Zale’s. That’s finished, along with my friendship with
Neil. But if I could only take Teresa with me to Germany, maybe—’
‘
Take Teresa to Germany
?’
‘Yes, I’m going to work for the ECA. They’re recruiting investment bankers to help rebuild the German economy. I’m going to
work for a new Europe. I’m going to put everything right.’
‘But Sam … Sam, Teresa would never be able to work if she were removed from America and isolated in some country where she
couldn’t speak the language!’