The Legacy (37 page)

“It's very simple, my dear. In just a few words, it's what we want to tell people. It's something we want to tell everyone. If you could, Carla, if you could talk to everyone in the world —” Now they were silent and attentive, watching the Mexican girl. She closed her eyes to stop the tears. “If you could, what would you say?”

In just a whisper, “War is bad.”

May Ling, sitting beside her, put her arm around Carla and wiped away the tears. “She's right,” May Ling said. “War is bad — for children and all living creatures.”

In four days of leisurely walking, Sam and Fred covered the distance between Tel Aviv and Megiddo. They carried knapsacks, wore shorts and sneakers, and cheated on their determination to see the land on foot only once, when they accepted a ride from a truckload of boys and girls returning to a kibbutz. Most of the ride was occupied with an attempt to find an appropriate Hebrew translation of the name Frederick. It failed, but they did ride for eighteen kilometers. They were fed at the kibbutz and afterwards there was a dance. The next morning, they were off again, turning inland from the seacoast at Hadera. “I've found it,” Fred said. “This is it. I marry Rita Hogan and turn Jewish. This place needs me. I can teach them how to make drinkable wine.”

“You and Moses. He found water, you give them wine. Rita Hogan is a Catholic and you're some kind of WASP.”

“Circumcised.”

“You're not serious?”

“Who knows?” Fred said. “I haven't had this much fun in years. I like it. It's my kind of place. You know that girl last night that I was having the heavy discussion with?”

“The one with the big boobs?”

“That's all you ever think about. Well, what do you think we were arguing about?”

“Sex.”

“Not at all, sonny. These kibbutz chicks are not pushovers. We were discussing Graves's translation of Suetonius, which she had just read — in English, cousin. Just imagine a farm girl at home reading Suetonius in Hebrew?”

“Why on God's earth would a farm girl in California read Suetonius in Hebrew? If she could ever find one in Hebrew.”

“You don't read me at all.”

“Only too well. Did you make out?”

“I told you. You don't make out with these chicks.”

“I do.”

“Big talk. Did you ever try on a kibbutz?”

“I don't go for country lasses. You figure Rita Hogan to turn Jewish and live on a kibbutz with you?”

“Who knows?”

“How many times have you been in love, Freddie?”

“I don't count. I enjoy being in love.”

They walked on. Sam became silent, looking about him curiously as they walked, his face tight. When Fred asked him what was on his mind, he shook his head, almost in anger.

“What is it, kid? Something I said? You know the way I talk.”

Sam shook his head. Then, after a moment or two, “Somewhere — probably in sight of where we are —” He waved at the rock-strewn hills. “Here's where my father was killed, back in 'forty-eight. Probably no more than a mile or two from where we are.”

“You don't know exactly?”

“No way to know.” He pointed to a kibbutz in the distance, the green rows of tillage, the buildings, and the orchards. “There — and there,” pointing to another block of fields and groves. “None of it was here in 'forty-eight. I don't know why I should want to know where it happened, but somehow I do. There were four of them, my father, an American, name of Brodsky, who was with him in the Spanish war, and two Israelis. All of them killed by the Arabs. A senseless, tiny piece of war, as senseless as most war. Not even recorded anywhere. I tried to track it down. No way. He fought through the Spanish war and then six years in the British army in World War Two, and then to die here. Why? Who was he? I've lived my whole life with all the heavy shit of being a hero's son. Heroes. I could have had a father.”

“I can see why you had to come here,” Fred said.

“I dream about him. I've seen pictures of him, but in the dreams, he has no face.”

At the Megiddo dig, Rita Hogan found them a supply tent where they could bed down for the night, and informed them, with great excitement, that she had managed a day off to show them around the ruins. “I don't truly have it coming. I've used up all my off days. But Bert Meadows — he's the boss here — is a good guy and let himself be talked into it. You can also eat at the mess tonight.”

“What do they pay you here?” Sam asked.

“Pay me? I'm a volunteer. They only charge me three dollars a day for food.”

“They're all heart, aren't they?”

“You're not an archaeologist.”

“Just a confused premedical student.”

“If you were,” Rita said, “you'd know what a privilege it is just to be allowed to work here.”

“Don't mind Sammy,” Fred said. “No romance and no higher thoughts. Here we are at the navel of civilization, and all he can think of is money. He's a barbarian.”

The barbarian walked behind, watching them with interest as Rita guided them through the dig. It was a beautiful day, hot, clear, the sky overhead like a burnished blue steel plate, the wide plain of Megiddo shimmering in the summer heat. Here was the ultimate symbol of war, the battlefield of the ages —
Har Megiddo
in Hebrew, which St. John transliterated as Armageddon — where the final combat would be fought. As always, day in and day out, as in all his days in Israel, Sam asked himself what he was, Jew or Gentile. Barbara's son or the son of the man who had died here. Not too far from this place, his father had paid the endless price of blood and still more blood. Did California exist? What did the fierce warriors who once long ago stood on this plain have to do with California — or with him? He was a tourist, the visitor, the observer, watching, noting, observing, here as on the streets of San Francisco or in the ivy-decked halls of Roxten Academy, belonging nowhere, trying to be a Jew and finding it the hardest thing he had ever attempted, watching Fred and Rita walking ahead of him, tall, slender, narrow-hipped, manufacturing in his mind a Jewish reaction, as he saw it, “A fine, blond
goyish
couple.” Yet in twenty-four hours, Freddie had become more Jewish than he had managed in two years. Freddie threw himself into the place. He loved it, the food, the people, the deliberate lack of courtesy, the arrogant self-sufficiency. Yet Freddie had fought no such inner battles as his own. Freddie had a Jewish stepfather whom he adored; his life was programmed precisely in the vine-covered slopes of Napa; Freddie was Jew or Gentile without pain or discomfort. Freddie fell in love as easily as one put on a pair of shoes, and where, Sam asked himself, was his own love? Why had he found no one to love in two years? “This one is it,” Freddie had informed him. “She is a great girl. I am absolutely going to marry her. Rita — that is a beautiful name. How do you translate it into Hebrew?”

“You don't,” Sam replied sourly. “It's a damn
goyish
name, like yours.”

Now the girl with the “damn
goyish
name” and the freckled arms and the flaming red hair was showing them the stables that had been excavated. “Solomon's stables,” she said. “Room for nine hundred chariot horses. Can you imagine — nine hundred horses.”

“They weren't built by Solomon,” Sam said. “They were built by King Ahab, who was Jezebel's husband.”

“I know that,” Rita said. “But they're called Solomon's stables.”

Fred was looking at him curiously. He felt foolish and abashed. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to put you down, Rita.”

“I know. Come on, I want to show you the Canaanite temple.”

“I've been here before,” Sam said. “You two go ahead. I'll catch up with you.”

He sat on a stone, running his fingers over the carving on its surface. The stone was warm to his touch. “Damn you,” he said softly, “you should have been here with me. God, I need you so much.” But his father had no answer for him.

Phil Baker, who was executive editor of the Los Angeles
Morning World,
opened the door to Carson Devron's office, and asked him whether he had a few minutes to spare.

“All the time you need. What is it, Phil?”

“This came up from advertising. Kelly thought I should look at it. I think you should.” He spread out on Carson's desk a proof of a full-page advertisement. “For tomorrow's edition.”

The advertisement had a single picture; the rest was type. Carson recognized the picture. It had been taken years ago, during World War Two, perhaps before then, during Japan's invasion of China. It showed a naked infant, lying on a ruined street in a ruined city. The picture had become very well known during that time, printed and reprinted, and had become a staple in photography exhibitions. Across the top of the page, in large type:

MOTHERS FOR PEACE

And beneath: “We are a group of women who have come together to do our utmost to bring an end to the war in Vietnam and hopefully to all war. Our purpose is to make American mothers aware of the feelings of each other. In so doing, we propose to make our government aware of the fact that millions of women in this land oppose the war and cry out for peace. To this end, we offer a simple statement. If it appears to be a child's voice crying out in a dark wilderness, then we can only say that ‘a child must lead them.' This is our statement:

“War is bad for children and other living creatures.”

Beneath this was the picture of the infant, and beneath the photograph: “Can so quiet and gentle a statement become the loudest voice in the land? We think so, and we ask you to join with us in spreading our statement and our name across every state in this land. Write to us. We will supply you with lapel buttons, bumper stickers, posters, and banners. If you wish to help financially, send us whatever you can. If you cannot afford to send a contribution, we will send whatever material you need free of charge.”

It was signed with Barbara's name, and with the names of five other women. Carson recognized the name of Sally Lavette, Barbara's sister-in-law. The other names were strange to him. The address was Barbara's address on Green Street.

Carson turned to Baker. “I've looked at it. Well?”

“Do we run it?”

“Is their credit in question?”

“It came with a check.”

“Then why the devil are you asking me whether we run it? Since when do we turn away business?” Carson asked harshly.

“Come on, Carson, don't chop my head off. You know that editorially we've been careful as hell about this lousy war.”

“This isn't editorial. This is advertising. We've run antiwar advertisements.”

“Little ones. This is a full page.”

“Well, what in hell difference does that make?”

“The old man ——”

Carson cut him off sharply. “My father doesn't run this paper. I do!”

Baker nodded, turned on his heel, and left the office. Carson sat at his desk, staring at the proof sheet in front of him. For perhaps ten minutes, he sat there, and then he got up and left his office. On his way out, he said to his secretary, “Call my wife and tell her that I had to go up to San Francisco. I'll be back tonight. I don't know what time.”

“Where can you be reached, Mr. Devron?”

“I can't be reached. The paper will survive.”.

He got to the airport in time for the ten-thirty plane, and then, once on the plane, began to regret the impetuosity of his action. What did it mean? Had he been waiting all these months for an excuse to see Barbara? Could he be indulging in anything so childish? Why had Phil Baker brought the proof sheet to him? Was it because anything that had to do with Barbara Lavette was still recognized as his province, his interest? He solved none of his inner problems by the time the plane landed, whereupon he relaxed and decided to let the day play itself out. He knew what he intended to do, even if he did not know why he proposed to do it.

Like so many men, Carson created illusionary islands of changelessness. Certain things must remain as they are, one of them being the house on Green Street. Let him be divorced from his wife and married to another woman, yet a pocket of memory would remain untouched, and in that mood he left the taxi that had brought him from the airport and walked up the old wooden steps of Barbara's house and reached out to press the bell button. A printed card stopped him. “The door is open. Please enter.” While he stood reading this, two women pushed by him and went into the house. He followed them into a bedlam of women, noise, and activity. The furniture in the small living room had been pushed back against the wall, and a long board table on trestles had been set up for the length of the room. Eight women sat at this table, four on either side, with piles of papers, envelopes, cards, and stamps. In the breakfast room, three young women were operating a mimeograph machine. Over the entrance to the dining room, a large card announced: “Information here.” In what he could see of the dining room, there were two women typing and at least half a dozen others milling around. At his right, as he stood in the tiny hallway, were two open cartons of lapel buttons, the boxes further decreasing the size of the entranceway and forcing him to press back against the wall to allow another woman to pass by him. From the kitchen, someone was shouting, “Coffee! Who's for coffee?” While from upstairs, high-pitched to be heard above the bedlam, a voice called: “Alice! Will you get up here! We need help!”

He stepped into the living room and stood tentatively, conscious of more and more eyes turning to him, increasingly uneasy in the crowded room, grateful for Barbara's appearance at that moment, coming down the staircase and noticing him. She went to him and took his hand and kissed his cheek. “How very nice to see you. What brings you to our madhouse?”