The Wilson Deception (9 page)

 

F
rench farm life, viewed between boxcar slats on a slow-moving train, charmed Joshua. The land looked soggy, weary of winter. Patches of snow were not yielding to spring. The sun cast long shadows as daylight slipped away.

The vertical slices of countryside seemed quaintly luxurious, a world without artillery barrages or bayonets, without bullets or barbed wire. People didn't piss or crap into buckets while others stood nearby, pretending it wasn't happening. Noise, even in a rattling boxcar, knew its place, never presuming to overpower or terrify. The front lines, more than anything else, had been exhausting. Not just the lack of sleep, the constant digging and rebuilding of trenches, the crawling around on patrol, every sense jangling. It was having to do the opposite of what he wanted to do, what he should do, every moment of the day and night. Even when he wasn't thinking about it or didn't know he was thinking about it, some part of his brain was screaming for him to run away, get away from this insane place and never turn back. Controlling that scream, doing what was plainly stupid, wore a man out.

He thought that was one reason he didn't react right away when he was convicted. Though he hadn't deserted, he'd wanted to. Maybe the army should punish him for that, for thinking wrong the whole time he was at war.

Then again, after the front, prison wasn't so bad. While under arrest, he no longer lived in an ooze that coated everything, crusted on his clothes and his skin, left him smelling of earth, cordite, excrement, and whatever gas either side most recently released. For the first time in months, he had no lice. The earth didn't shudder with detonations. The sky didn't recoil from terrible blasts. He could lie still, feel his muscles and his breathing. During exercise period the sun warmed his face. Breezes came, even to prison yards. After eighteen months of living with dozens of other soldiers, solitude was a joy. He had seen other prisoners reading. Maybe soon his mind would be quiet enough so he could read. Maybe then he'd be able to think, too.

But when his father visited him, Joshua's façade of resignation and acceptance crumbled. One look at the old man's deeply lined face, at his pain and his anger and his disappointment, told Joshua that he'd been spinning lies for himself. The army was turning his life inside out, punishing him, punishing his family, for something he didn't do. Suddenly, Joshua could feel the hurt because it sat across a wobbly table from him and throbbed. He and his father hadn't said much. They never did. But that fierce old man brought him back.

Squealing train brakes made Joshua wince. They were stopping for the eighth or ninth time. He had lost count. Either the French railways were in tatters or a trainload of American soldiers and prisoners commanded very low priority. Joshua watched an old woman walk alongside a cart pulled by a brown donkey. He couldn't make out the cart's load, but it seemed almost more than the donkey could manage. Perhaps, he wondered, the donkey used the same struggling stride no matter how heavy the load. A play for sympathy. If your job involved hauling a cart all day, that would be a smart move.

The train started up with a lurch that seemed too dramatic for the low speeds the engineer favored. After another ten minutes, they pulled in to Troyes, pulling past the passenger platform in the dim twilight.

The boxcar doors rumbled open, pulled from the outside by two of the three guards responsible for the half-dozen prisoners. They were changing trains, the guards yelled. The prisoners jumped down. The guards lined them up single file and herded them to the train station. Inside the station, Joshua's shoulders relaxed with the smell of coffee and tobacco and the yeasty funk of people in damp clothes. He took the aromas in through his pores, storing up the sensations.

A high wall clock with Roman numerals chimed the quarter hour. The civilians in the station were mostly women in faded head scarves. They paid little attention to the American prisoners, who were mushed out a side door of the station, leaving its warmth to the soldiers who entered behind them.

A guard nudged Joshua and pointed him toward a vile-smelling
pissoir
. Two years before, he would have shied from pissing in semipublic. Another life. The cold air was sharp as it reached his private parts. He relaxed gradually, felt the warm flow. Standing, lost in his own regrets, he finished and closed his pants, then turned. The guard was gone.

In his place stood a tall, fair-haired fellow with a trim mustache, hands in his pockets. He looked to be on his way to a cocktail party. “Sergeant Cook, walk a few steps with me.” He nodded away from the train station. When Joshua turned that way, the man added, “Don't run. That would ruin a good deal of very careful planning.”

They walked a few hundred feet, side by side, when the man slowed. A squared-off truck stood near the curb. In no hurry, the man opened the rear door and indicated Joshua should climb up.

The truck fell dark when the door closed behind him, Joshua still on his knees on the truck bed. Hands thrust a bundle into his arms. A familiar deep voice told him to be quiet and listen.

His father spoke, his voice tense and urgent in the darkness.

“You have to make a decision, son, that will define your life. There's only a minute to get you back onto the train, if that's your choice. Then you go back to America like this, go to some military prison. They won't tell me which. If that's your choice, your mother and I'll keep fighting for you, trying to get a pardon or a new trial or anything else that might help. But I've failed at everything so far. I have no idea if there's anything left that would work.”

“What's this now?” Joshua held up the bundle in his arms. His eyes were adjusting to the dark. He could make out his father's hunched form.

“That's the uniform of a Senegalese regiment of the French Army. You can put it on and board the next train from Troyes to Paris. There's a ticket in the breast pocket. That young fellow who walked you over here would meet you at the Paris station and take you to a place. It's supposed to be a safe place. I'll be there. We'd wait there, wait for further instructions from that same man.”

“Who's he? He's my age.”

“Don't be fooled. He's some big shot in the government. Some say he's a spy. He must be to make this happen. If you do this, if you put that uniform on, that man will have complete power over you. He's going to ask you to do something for him. He won't tell me what it is. It has to be dangerous or wrong or both. Nobody takes a colored soldier out of prison to do something that's on the up-and-up. Doesn't happen. So that's your choice. And your time to decide is pretty much up.”

Joshua sat back and started to unbutton his trousers. “Daddy, that's not hardly a decision. Give me some room.” As he struggled in the dark with the buttons of the Senegalese soldier, he finally placed the smell in the truck. It was chocolate. It was a chocolate truck. He started laughing.

 

Fraser leaned over the seated patient and placed the stethoscope against his chest. He didn't usually see patients this late at night.

“Deep breath.” He listened. “Again.” He pulled the earpieces out and draped the instrument over his shoulders. “You were gassed.”

“Just a trace, really. Not like others. I was slow putting the mask on, but those masks were bad. You couldn't see anything.”

“I've heard. That shrapnel wound give you trouble? Any infection?” Fraser pointed to the patient's calf.

“No. They sent me right back to the line with it. I think I got six hours off, most of it waiting to see the doc.”

“Have you had the flu?”

“Back last spring. Before we went into the line. Wasn't bad. Not like it was later.”

“Good. That may give you some immunity. It's come back, here in Paris. Not as bad so far.”

“No kidding?”

Fraser looked down at his clipboard. “Do you have the dreams?”

“The dreams?”

“You know what I mean.”

Joshua took a breath. “Yeah, some nights.”

“Do they keep you from sleeping?”

“Some nights.”

Fraser figured that meant most nights. He patted Joshua on the knee. “Considering what you've been through, Sergeant, you're remarkably sound. Please dress and step into the office.”

Speed stood by the office window, looking out at another dirty night, sleet making the streets gleam. He looked the question at Fraser.

“He's okay. Breathed some gas somewhere, but the symptoms may subside over time. Otherwise healthy, though not very well nourished.”

Cook slapped his own flank. It made a solid thwack. “His father more than makes up for that.”

Fraser smiled. “Good to see you joking, but his weight loss also matches him not sleeping so well. It happens with lots of them, but you should keep an eye on it. None come back like they were.”

“He's not shell-shocked?”

“No, not like that. But he's not like you and me, either. They've been through hell. Keep an eye on him.”

“For what?”

“Hard to be sure. Anything different from before.”

Cook was quiet while Fraser tried to organize the chaos on his desk. He made no medical record of his examination of Joshua because, officially, Joshua wasn't there. Finally he sat back. “Seems that Dulles boy can move mountains.”

“I can't let myself think about the sort of hold he's got over Joshua. I'm afraid we've exchanged the frying pan for the fire.”

“There he is,” Fraser said when Joshua walked in. Joshua had ditched the Senegalese uniform for French workman's clothes his father had brought. “Say, young man. I wonder if you remember the last time we met?” When Joshua looked confused, Fraser went on. “It was the picnic on the Fourth of July, our nation's birthday, in 1900. We were next to a stream in Cadiz, Ohio.”

“What was I, four years old? I'm supposed to remember?”

The older men laughed. Cook stood. He was surprised how tired he was. “I need to get this young soldier tucked in. Who knows what's next?”

 

“G
entlemen, gentlemen.” The president glided into Colonel House's large office in the Hotel Crillon. Clemenceau and Lloyd George, seated next to the fire on the chilly mid-March afternoon, rose with wide smiles and open hands. They had not seen each other for a month while Wilson was back in America, Lloyd George was in London, and Clemenceau recovered from his bullet wound. The president, half a head taller than both and conspicuously clean-shaven, warmly returned their gay greetings, grasping the hand of each.

As Wilson settled into his seat before the fire, attendants brought them tea and cookies, then retired from the room. Clemenceau assured his colleagues he was fully recovered from the shooting.

“Your health,” Wilson said, “is a miracle.”

“Ah, no,” the Frenchman answered. “A miracle would have been to prevent that madman from shooting at me.” He added with a twinkle, “It seems that during our recess, I may have had the best time of the three of us.”

The other two offered thin smiles.

“You know how the unions can be,” Lloyd George said through his feather-duster mustache. “One must listen sympathetically, care deeply, and get lots of people talking to each other. A few are bound to agree with each other sooner or later, then you're off to the races. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. President?”

Showing his teeth in what might have been a grin, Wilson shook his head. “Being a younger nation, our approach to political disagreements may be a bit more bare-knuckled, but I'll bring them around. I had to lead our people to understand the importance of the war, the need for us to become involved.” The others nodded. “Now I have to lead them to understand the importance of this peace. I'll do it. Tell me, gentlemen, all this news of the different revolutions has been worrisome.”

The others commiserated over the entrenchment of Bolshevism in Russia, its spread into Hungary, the anarchists and socialists who sometimes commanded the streets of Berlin.

Lloyd George pressed on that last point. “I worry about the Germans. There's revolution all around us. Indeed, even in our midst. Look at the lunatic who shot the premier. But we cannot make peace with a Germany that has no government. We must get on with this conference, work straight through to a treaty, and find someone who will sign for Germany.”

Wilson held up a forefinger. “Of course, you are right, Mr. Prime Minister. Certainly about the risk from revolutionaries. But I must insist that the peace be based on our principles. Our principles are what stand between the world and another conflagration like this last one.”

Clemenceau's teacup and spoon clattered onto a side table. “Exactly. I agree exactly. I must always insist, though, that one principle comes before all others. Germany must never be able to do this again. Twice I have seen German troops trample the sacred ground of France. Twice I have seen German shells blow up streets in Paris, right here in the beating heart of civilization. Our first principle must be to deny Germany the ability to do this a third time. How can we face the judgment of history if we allow it to happen again? If we do not stop them now, they will do it again. Germany is like the lion that hunts the antelope. The lion has no choice. Hunting the antelope is what he will do. He can do no other. Germany will make war if she can, and it is poor France's misfortune to live next door.”

“Surely,” Lloyd George broke in, “France is no defenseless antelope.”

“Let us move Britain next to Germany,” Clemenceau fired back, “and then we'll see whether you feel like an antelope.”

Wilson raised a pacifying hand. “We are better than the animals of the jungle. We must create a world where humans no longer act like them. Haven't we had enough of that? It's the human soul and spirit we're talking about here.”

Lloyd George sat forward. “I've spent some of the last month thinking about the structure of our talks as I'm sure you gentlemen have. I wonder that we might be well served to clear out the underbrush a bit before we grapple with these massive issues. If we can resolve the situations of some of the smaller places, then soon enough we'll be much closer to the end. Surely, for example, we can resolve our business in Africa, and in Asia, and even in Arabia. With the earlier agreement between our two countries over the Middle East”—he nodded to Clemenceau—“that can be settled amicably.” The British prime minister sat back.

Wilson set his cup and saucer on a side table. “I share your concern that we find a method for advancing our pace, but your example of Arabia is not one I would have chosen. Your two nations have behaved like bullies in the schoolyard, dividing up those lands between yourselves. But who has consulted with the people who live there? What do they want? That is the question we are honor bound to ask now.”

Clemenceau slapped his own thigh. “Mr. President, you ask exactly the correct question. Perhaps we could find a way to do so.”

“Precisely. We must ask those people who live there,” Wilson said.

Lloyd George forced himself to nod as though he agreed with an idea that seemed the very picture of lunacy—seeking the views of a passel of preliterate nomads and rug merchants. Clemenceau, he decided, could not truly agree with such lunacy. He was merely playing along.

“I have thought of a way to accelerate our progress,” Wilson began again. “I urge that we conduct more conversations among the three of us, like this. Having additional parties and personalities engaged in our exchanges only produces confusion and complications. Not to mention an endless series of leaks to the newspapers.”

The other two nodded firmly, muttering their agreement. The Big Three might squabble, but they were united in their anger over the press—even Clemenceau, who had been a newspaper editor for many years.

Wilson continued. “Over the last month, when we three were not engaged, the negotiations made very little progress and the newspapers enjoyed a carnival of unauthorized disclosures. Indeed, much of what progress was made may very well need to be redone.”

After a few moments of quiet, Clemenceau said, “Mr. President, to be as clear as may be, you propose that the three of us should meet in secret.”

Wilson nodded sagely.

Lloyd George shot a glance at the Frenchman. Clemenceau's management of the American president was a thing of beauty.

“An interesting idea,” Clemenceau said slowly, “and, if I may say, a very bold one.” He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Sir, you have persuaded me.” He struck the arm of his chair with the flat of his hand. “I concur entirely. How very wise of you.”

 

 

 

“I must speak with you immediately.” Lawrence, who had approached Dulles on the street, kept his eyes fixed to the side of the American's head. Lawrence's anger came through in his clipped speech and rigid posture.

“Of course, Colonel,” Dulles answered. “Perhaps we can cross over to the president's residence?”

Upon their return from the United States, the Wilsons had settled in a less baronial home that stood near Lloyd George's lodging, on the happily named Place des États-Unis. Daisies gaily bobbed their heads in the small square, heralding the loosening of winter's grip on Paris. Having the English-speaking allies so close to each other was undeniably convenient, and no one cared any more if it looked like they were making confidential arrangements with each other. The treaty-makers had long since abandoned any pretense that the Allies were not dictating the peace.

“Now Dulles, can you truly believe that the French mean to send a commission to the Middle East to gauge Arab public opinion? And we're supposed to be so fatuous as to believe that they will then follow whatever policy the Arab people want?”

Dulles chose only to smile and arch an eyebrow, hoping he appeared enigmatic. The peace conference was teaching him not to argue with zealots. Far better to let them blow themselves out.

“My God, man!” Lawrence exploded. “It's the grossest form of insult. The French wipe their asses with Arab public opinion, and that opinion is hardly difficult to divine. The Arabs have ruled themselves for thousands of years and wish to continue to do so. They do not wish to have a bunch of fat-assed French and English siphon off their wealth.” Lawrence stopped to face Dulles, forcing the American to turn toward him. “Don't you know that your president has just signed the death warrant for the Arab state?”

Dulles adopted a confused look. “Is that a specific document?”

For once, Lawrence looked at Dulles. “You sport with me. You think it makes me seem ridiculous. But you have a responsibility to history here. You understand that. Of that much I am sure. I am not so sure your uncle or the president understand it. You must make them understand. It's not enough to be well-meaning. One must also not be stupid. History will not be kind to those who are stupid.”

Dulles watched Lawrence stalk away, his stiff-legged gait a fair barometer of his fury. As he turned back to the president's residence, Dulles saw his brother standing in front, looking like the Man in the Arrow Collar. The brothers waved to each other and Foster waited. When Allen reached him, Foster asked, “Lawrence knows?”

“Does he ever.”

“That man will bear watching. He and his crafty Hebrew friends.”

“Speaking of crafty friends, what do we hear from Standard Oil?”

“They are patient. For now. Not forever, I fear. They watch Colonel Lawrence closely.”

“Who could look away?”

 

The president felt wrung out. He sank into the chair in his dressing room. His left eyelid began to twitch. Blasted thing. He held the eyelid steady with a finger. He must be getting old. The evidence was everywhere. He was tired so often. He hated to think this was what the rest of his life would be like.

He had to get through the peace conference. He had been amazed at what a mess Colonel House made of the negotiations while Wilson was back home. If you want something done correctly . . . He sighed inwardly. It was too delicate a process, even for House. Wilson let his good eye wander the room. At least these quarters were less regal. That Murat Palace had been appalling, suitable for the Sun King, not for the president of a democracy.

“Who are you?” He didn't recognize the valet who entered with his evening clothes. He took his finger off his eyelid.

“John Barnes, sir.”

“Where's Jerome?”

“He's come down with the flu. Mr. Hoover has, too. Just today.”

“Ike's sick?” Wilson expelled a breath. “Without our chief usher, the wheels will come off for real around here.”

The valet faced him from about ten feet away. “I hope not, sir.”

“How are they doing, both of them?”

“We've been told they'll recover. That's all I know.”

That, Wilson thought, is what was always said. He would have to ask Grayson to get a straight answer. “Where do you hail from, son? I can't quite place your accent.”

“Ohio, sir, then New Jersey, then New York. My father always insisted that we not speak with an accent.”

Wilson laughed softly. “I suppose that means your father doesn't approve of me.”

“Oh, no, sir. We all supported the Wilson ticket. Both times.”

“Well, John Barnes, you brim over with correct answers. Tell me, have you ever done any singing? In the church choir perhaps? You have a strong-sounding voice.”

“They only let me sing in the pews, sir. I'm loud but not too accurate.”

Wilson smiled. “Loud but not too accurate. You have described the Italian negotiating style to a tee. The French, too.”

The bar was smoky and noisy, filled with unshaven men in heavy boots and dirty jackets. To Joshua's eye, many of the women sprinkled through the place also could do with a wash and a shave. He had yet to see the flower of French womanhood. Soldiers at the front, on short leave, couldn't afford to be choosy. Neither, to be truthful, were the French women near the front, many of whom casually accepted Negro clientele. As did this bar, where Joshua and his father weren't the only colored people. Nobody paid much attention to them.

At least the singing had finally died down. Not that Joshua didn't enjoy a rousing chorus of “The Internationale
,”
with its thundering demand for justice and revolution. The patrons of Chez Dennis, however, knew all six verses and insisted on singing them all, steadily losing any sense of melody as they trudged manfully through the turgid business. The last stanza sounded like guttural threats from a dazed but dangerous guard dog.